Pickles and Peanut Butter
by Reigning Rats
Summary: It's a well kept secret amongst nations. No one speaks of the mysterious pregnancies and replacements; no one speaks of the lengths they all go through to prevent such things. No one ever informed a certain loud mouthed American.
1. Prologue

**WARNING: THIS CONTAINS MPREG, TALK OF ABORTIONS, AND ISN'T TECHNICALLY A SHIPPY FIC. UNLESS YOU SQUINT AND LOOK REEEAL HARD.  
**

* * *

It was a day like all others. The countries were gathered for another round of just who could piss everyone in the room off more. Least, that was what America liked to lovingly refer to World Summits as. Usually he pioneered the shit storm and this time was no different. After waking with a nasty case of upset stomach and having just figured it was one too many Big Macs, America was back in the game and riling up the other countries as no other could.

"You prat! Insult my tea one more time!" England bellowed. He was livid.

America grinned, "Tea tastes like horse piss and you're got a couple of nasty bushes on your face."

Canada looked less than enthused with America's childish games. He leaned over and tugged on his brother's sleeve, silently pleading for Alfred to just stop before things went too far. As usual, he went unnoticed. That is, unnoticed by everyone but Russia.

The larger nation just oozed misplaced mirth as he pinned Matthew with a small smile, "This is amusing, Canada. Aren't you excited waiting for them to rip each other apart?"

The sickly sweet tone and unnerving smile made the Canadian shiver as he slouched over in his seat and did his best imitation of a ghost. The ruse seemed to work well enough because, even as America continued arguing overhead, he melted into the background and became a figurative enigma. Times like these, that suited him just fine.

"Would you two shut up!" Germany pleaded rather loudly. "This is supposed to be a professional and diplomatic meeting!"

"Ve~, Germany! I thought Alfred's idea about genetically altered treemen to clean up the air was a good idea!" Italy called out from beside his fair haired friend.

It was in that moment Germany found himself rather jealous of Canada's ability to melt into nothingness. He couldn't even find the North American sibling. Perhaps his sight was going or the headache pounding within his skull was just too distracting. No matter the case, he could not focus and even he lost the will to try and salvage the meeting.

From there, things only deteriorated. Italy kept nagging at Germany, demanding pasta and trying to tug them both from the conference room even as Germany was trying to will away the hammering in his head. For one reason or another - did they ever even need a reason?- the Nordics were having a swell time arguing amongst themselves. Denmark was being especially loud and things looked about ready to go to blows as Sweden glowered at him and hugged Finland close.

America's tactful ways reared their head after he directed a rather smooth comment towards Israel and Jordan. Then the Middle Eastern nations were off in an argument. Switzerland looked about ready to pull a gun and mow down the occupants of the room, if only Lichtenstein wasn't tugging on his arm insistently. All the while, England and America still argued near the head of the table.

"Brazil will back me, won't cha bud?" America piped up, slinging an arm around a rather reluctant looking nation.

Brazil did not look pleased to have been brought into the middle of everything. Any protest the nation was going to form died. In the brief moment he had spaced out, trying to figure out just how to disengage with minimal damage, he had missed something important. Something _very_ important because the next thing he heard made most of the conference room quiet for a moment.

"Venezuela," America rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, "that was some mean bush."

The innuendo was not lost on the room nor the nation it addressed. Venezuela rose, face flushed, as she pointed an accusatory finger at America and sputtered. She was livid but too embarrassed to think of something good enough. Instead, she settled for a string of curses in her native tongue and wild arm movements. Some looked rather threatening.

The room soon sprang back to life as a whole new wave of arguments arose. All those present were now discussing the less than appropriate alliances, agreements, unions, and the such. There were blushes worn all around as things were dragged from the closet. More than just a few of the nations were red with embarrassment. France seemed the only one not affected as he rattled off on his numerous exploits and just how wonderful French love really was and how the aforementioned parties could confirm that fact.

America and England were still arguing, even after Brazil managed to worm away.

"Your president is an oaf!"

"Your queen's a hoe."

"Your culture is subhuman!"

"Your music sucks!"

"You're fat!"

Russia chose then to interject. He loomed just over England's shoulder, standing tall and still wearing that alarmingly sweet smile, "_Da_, it's true, Alfred. You have gotten quite fat."

"Hey! It's the suit!" America defended haughtily. Last he had checked, there was no extra weight hanging from his midsection or otherwise. That was saying something, considering he often found himself standing before a mirror least once a day. "Seriously, I'm legit when I say that."

"I'd sooner slap on a top hat and begin doing my rendition of 'Dancing in the Rain' than believe that," Arthur shot back quickly.

"Well, fuck ya then!" America answered cheekily.

Just to prove a point, he lifted the hem of his dress shirt to show off the smooth plains of his stomach. As it were, when the shirt came up and a triumphant grin worked its way onto his features, England began to cackle madly. For a moment, he was confused. Then France decided to come see what the spontaneous stripping was for and decided to comment on the apparent fat on his belly.

America looked down, rather distressed, only to discover that he did indeed have an apparent excess of fat clinging to his belly. His face flushed quickly and he yanked his shirt back down, thoroughly embarrassed. _Just when did that get there? Heroes don't get fat!_ he thought feverently.

"Your diet has obviously failed you," England jeered cruelly. He jabbed a finger into America's midsection and froze.

His finger stayed poised there, just barely pressing into the material of the shirt. America was taken aback by the move and slapped England's hand away when the nation didn't remove it in a timely manner. With a pout, he aimed another insult at both England and France for making fun of his misfortune. So what if he had forgotten about working out for the past few days. Weeks. Alright, months. It wasn't his fault things had gotten so hectic.

Arthur did not take the bait and his gaze merely traveled up to meet Alfred's eyes. The younger of the two quirked a brow and put on another grin, "Cat got your tongue? Or did my awesome heroness overwhelm you?"

Still no response. It was rather frightening. Moments passed as Arthur just _stared _ at Alfred. His gaze did not waver. Hell, the shorter nation didn't even blink. The room was still roaring all around them. No one really noticed the odd turn of events aside from the small circle involved in the engagement. Namely, that included Russia, France, England, America, and, unknown to the others, Canada.

England snatched up France's straying hand, which had been making a beeline for Arthur's behind while he was distracted, and redirected the appendage to America's stomach. France was about to protest, something about not wanting to touch the little mound of fluff and that he was not a chubby chaser of any sort. That protest died down as soon as his palm lay flat against America's belly.

The American was getting increasingly uncomfortable with the situation. He again swatted away France's hand and was about to make a showy and angry exit from the room when England nearly roared, "Lunch!"

On cue, the volume of the conference room dropped as it was replaced by the thundering of feet. All the nations were scrambling to leave, America included. He shrugged off the bad feeling bubbling in the pit of his stomach. The feeling nearly made him sick and he placed his own hand on his upset middle. Something fluttered within his chest and the sickness subsided, grin soon back in place as he made a show of getting to the nearest McDonald's.

England and France lingered within the conference room, Canada seeming to manifest himself from beside France despite his having stood there the entire time. The two eldest of the three jumped before calming themselves. They had long ago gotten used to such things. The moment their hearts had slowed from the sudden scare they looked to Canada.

France seemed to have adopted a pitying gaze. England looked more worried than annoyed despite the near hour long confrontation with America just moments before. Canada couldn't really decipher just what was going on. He looked between the other two, trying to figure it out. Then something clicked. A sudden thought entered his mind.

He fought down a horrified gasp. "A-Alfred's. . . Pregnant?" the Canadian squeaked.

The other two nodded solemnly.

**A/N: Just something that went click in my head. Why? Good question. It's not necessarily meant to be serious, though it probably will at times, and is supposed to be. . . Dryly humorous. Don't maim me. ORZ I have the first chapter already done, that will be up soon. This story isn't really supposed to be about couples either, but just watch, I'll get some gay love in there SOMEWHERE. It's how we queers roll. Read, review, do what you please. I haven't much to say this time.**


	2. Chapter 1

The rest of the evening went by rather uneventfully, considering America was not present for the second half of the meeting. When ten minutes of searching proved fruitless, the group had given up. Some work was actually accomplished. Key word being some, of course.

After the meeting ended, England, France, and Canada went like hounds from hell to sniff out America. They searched the meeting hall, all the conference rooms, the surrounding grounds, and the joint hotel. It seemed the American just wasn't to be found. Their last resort was just knocking on the man's hotel room door.

To their surprise, as England pulled his hand from the door, there came a groaning from within the room and a rather sleepy looking Alfred stood before them. He was clad in only his boxers, glasses askew, as he wearily glared at the three gathered outside his door.

"What do you want? I'm tired," America whined.

"Don't be such a child," England was quick to scold. He pushed the door open, effectively shoving America to the side in the process, and lead the way into the room. Canada shut the door behind him, ever forgotten. "We have to talk," England quickly informed his old charge.

"If it's about the meeting thing, so my bad," Alfred began, running a hand through his hair. He smiled effortlessly, "I started feeling like shit then totally crashed."

"Not about the meeting, _cheri_," France put in warmly.

There was something in his tone that just didn't settle right with America. It was almost like Francis was trying to soothe him. Almost as if something was wrong. He figured he was misreading the atmosphere: _again_. With that figured out, the thought quickly fled, especially since he felt the familiar ache to relieve himself rising.

"Gotta piss," he announced shortly before disappearing into the bathroom for a moment.

He was quick to lock the door before doing his business. As he emerged once more, feeling much better no less, America gave the room's occupants a dazzling smile. After all, what better way to smooth things over than to give that trademark, Hollywood style quirk of the lips? It was obvious he had done something, at least, since England looked so completely annoyed.

"So," America drawled, "with that being said, you guys can, you know, get out." He laughed breezily, beckoning towards the door with a grand gesture of his hands.

Canada appeared beside him, hand on his shoulder. Confusion filtered across America's features as he looked over at his brother. Normally, Alfred wasn't one to be led anywhere, but the look in Canada's eyes made him obey, if not just this once, to take a seat on his bed. Silence ensued from there. Even as he stared questioningly at the trio gathered near the small table in the corner of the room, no one spoke up. The quiet was getting to him and his hand twitched restlessly.

He laughed again, unsure what to do, "Seriously guys, you're starting to freak me out. What's up? That pissed about me not showing up?"

"Alfred, that's not-"

Canada never got to finish that thought. England butted in with arms crossed and face pinched in irritation, "You're such an idiot."

"My heart, I am wounded!" America joked, placing a hand on his chest and falling back onto the mattress. No one else but him seemed amused and he sat back up, still all smiles though the edges faltered. "If you guys are just gonna stand there like the _real_ idiots, mind leaving so I can go back to bed?"

England and France shared a look then the two looked to Canada. Matthew nodded, mouthing something like 'First mouth' or something, and then all three looked at Alfred. He quirked a brow but otherwise said nothing. To keep himself from saying anything, his hand toyed with the comforter, pulling at a loose thread. He was about to kindly order the trio out of his room when England chose to elaborate, if only a little, on just what in the hell was going on.

"I should have told you when you were younger," the nation groused. He sat down heavily in a chair beside the table, resting his elbows upon his knees. "A part of me just wanted a fresh start and for you to go away."

America's smile faltered, "Gee, thanks, Arthur. Glad to hear."

"Shut up!" the Englishman snapped. His raised his eyes to Alfred. They were all at once hateful, regretful, and rather. . . Motherly. "America, _Alfred_, you're pregnant."

There was a moment's pause. Matthew toyed with the edge of his shirt until his gaze snapped up to his brother when Alfred began laughing. He was so caught up in his laughter, America failed to notice the others weren't joining in. He laughed till he was clutching at his sides until he noticed the lack of enthusiasm from the others. America figured they missed the punchline.

"Yea, right, Arthur!" America chuckled, wiping at his eyes and rubbing his now sore sides. "I'm not the Virgin Mary or some shit. I'm not even a _girl_. Got the, ya know, ol' meat and potatoes goin' on."

The three did not offer a response to him. Least, not before they tried to convey the seriousness of it by their stares. It made America squirm. Maybe he was the one that missed the punchline?

Canada spoke then, voice louder and more commanding than America had heard in quite some time, "He's serious, Alfred. This is serious. We've all just sorta. . . Put off telling you about this stuff. You need to listen now."

America waved a dismissive hand, still grinning at the current situation. He was convinced this was all still a joke and Matthew was in on it and doing a damn good job trying to pull it off. No doubt it was some sort of bet. See who can make America believe he's pregnant gets another slice of Antarctica or something equally absurd. That was what Alfred was still figuring, despite the grave looks upon the others faces.

"Guys, really. How dumb do you think I am?" he questioned lightly, hands unconsciously running through his hair. "I mean, I haven't been tapped or tapped, for that matter, in what, months? I don't even remember. That and guys _can't _get pregnant. Iunno a lot about the human body, but I'm pretty sure that's a fact."

Arthur threw his hands up, letting out something like a half groan, half growl of frustration, "You bloody fucking prat! We're serious. Would you just get that through your thick head?"

America mimicked him the entire time he was talking, face pinched into gentlemanly annoyance. Again, there were no snickers for his antics and something unsettling was beginning to pool within the pit of his stomach. The joke was getting a little old for him. He was tired, hadn't been feeling well lately, and just wanted them to leave so he could sleep. Really, was that too much to ask? It wasn't like he was asking them to commit another couple thousands troops to his war or anything.

"_Cheri_, please listen," France implored smoothly. He slid from the table where he had been perched and came to America's side. He took the taller nation's hand and gently led it down to his stomach. "Feel."

So America felt, "Yea, I'm getting fat. Is this a 'scare Alfred into thinking he's pregnant so he'll cut down on the fast food' intervention? Or like a 'use a pun to make Alfred realize he's gotten just a little, teeny tiny bit out of shape' thing?"

France shook his head and pressed Alfred's hand harder against his belly. For a while, America could feel nothing. He felt the warmth of his skin, that was all. Then something more began to rise from his consciousness. He wasn't sure just what it was. Only that it was light and warm, coming from his stomach and spreading outward. It was a tender sort of feeling, like what he associated first love to feel like.

Beneath that tranquil feeling was a foreboding sense of dread. From where, America could not place it.

"Alright. . . This is weird," America put in. "What's going on?"

Francis shook his head and Matthew approached, draping an arm around his brother's shoulders as he leaned in and rested his head against Alfred's shoulder. Quietly, ever so quietly, Canada answered, "You're pregnant."

England stayed in the chair, making no move to come forward. He wanted to, that was for damn sure. There was something holding him back: guilt.

With a resigned sigh, England filled in the big blank, "None of us are sure why it happens. It just does every few centuries or so. One of us gets pregnant. It doesn't make sense and none of us can explain it."

America snorted and mumbled, "Yea, that's for sure."

"Just listen," France murmured, absently rubbing circles with Alfred's hand across his belly.

The close contact to the others was beginning to get to Alfred, but he allowed it to continue on in favor of just listening to Arthur as he proceeded.

"Don't bother getting excited," England said dryly. "The baby is meant to be a replacement for you. It's a renewal of sorts. You die, the child grows up in your place."

America narrowed his eyes, "So why are all of you still here? Pretty sure you're not some creepy replacement."

Canada began to shake at his side and a weary sigh worked its way from France's lips. England answered once more, face screwed up in something like disdain and misery. The look was so odd to see upon Arthur. That look alone made America believe the whole thing, if only just a small amount more.

"I've - all of us - have taken the appropriate measures to make sure that we are not replaced," Arthur explained slowly. His expression did not change. "To havea young child running around as a nation now would be chaotic."

America could only gap. Even if he did believe the whole thing, he couldn't believe that the other nations, _all _of them apparently, had really gotten rid of something as precious as their own flesh and blood. Honestly, he was having a little trouble wrapping his head around the thought of the others having abortions, of all things. He just couldn't see some of them going through with it. Italy? Ukraine? Taiwan?

"So, now we have to take the appropriate measures with you," England finished lamely. He squared his shoulders and prepared for America to start balking at the whole thing, to start completely denying it all.

No such thing happened. Dumbfounded, the American looked at his brother leaned up against his side and questioned, "Did that kinda thing happen to you, Matt?"

The other nodded, hiding away his face. It wasn't that long ago since he had the misfortune of experiencing the whole ordeal. France had warned him long ago, when he was more of a teenager than anything, about the whole pregnancy thing. He hadn't understood it, only known it wasn't something not to be taken lightly. Four decades ago, Canada had gone through what so many of the others had. It had been a painful thing, but France had coaxed him into doing, what all the others deemed as, the right thing.

"France?" America asked. "England?"

"Many times, Alfred," France said softly. He nodded his head, still working America's hand against the barely perceptible bump. England's gaze dipped down to the bump, to the hands resting there and moving about the bronzed flesh. "We did what was needed. Those now gone had warned us all a very long time ago about it."

As Alfred looked from England, who was staring at his stomach and making the younger nation want to squirm; France, who was also staring but more fondly than anything; and Canada, who would only glance from time to time, he could sense _something_. There was something like longing, like regret. It was actually beginning to get sickening, that or. . .

America had to lurch off the bed, tearing himself from France and Canada, to run into the bathroom once more. The nausea worked fast and he hardly had time to lift the lid till he was dry heaving into the bowl. Once his stomach was done revolting, he kept his head lowered and groaned. So, many things made a little sense if he even was pregnant. He had been tired lately, sick at random times. The urge to pee had become common and he couldn't deny that he had been eating just a tad bit more than usual.

He heard his brother speak up from the doorway, "Are you okay?"

The addressed nation wiped at his mouth and turned, sitting on the tile with a warm smile and legs folded beneath him even as his stomach rolled unpleasantly. "Yea, Mattie. I'm fine. Apparently got a tater in the oven, so this is supposed to be normal, right?"

His brother nodded numbly, fidgeting and not quite believing Alfred. His response was quiet, "We should take care of this soon. No one else has to know. We always keep it a secret when it happens."

America couldn't hide the wince. He had always considered he and Canada as thick as thieves, not counting the numerous times he forgot about his brother, and incapable of keeping secrets from one another. Apparently he was wrong because he had no idea his brother had gone through something like that. It hurt to know Matthew hadn't come to him, especially when it seemed the whole ordeal had had such an impact on his younger brother.

"How far along do you think I am?" America continued on. He recovered quickly and leaned forward on the tile, smiling once more.

Canada fidgeted again, "Maybe. . . A month, or two. Least, that's what I figure."

Alfred nodded and hummed to himself, looking off to the mirror. He could see his reflection, all tanned skin and barely there freckles, sky blue eyes and warming smile. Then there was that little protrusion on his stomach. Just the littlest hump, nestled there. His shoulders dropped.

"Can you guys, maybe, leave for a little? I just wanna think about this, you know?"

His brother nodded and hesitantly moved from the doorway. There was shuffling from the other room, a few protests and a rather commanding sounding Canadian pushing the others out. America heaved a heavy sigh when he heard the hotel door close, and he knew he was alone again. He cast a last look at himself in the mirror once more.

**A/N: Whoohoo. Way I see it, there's two ways I can take this story. One, he does what everyone else has and I can detail just how shitty that must feel. Two, I could have him keep it. Second option leads to two endings. Well, the way I see it. WHATEVER. I'll figure something out. Eventually. This is my silly, least silly for me, side project for when I get bored and less srs bsns. Read, review, whatever you damned well please.**


	3. Chapter 2

Four months from the last world meeting and America was doing more than ignoring calls. All three nations, concerned over their friend, had tried calling both Alfred's personal and professional number. The outcome was always the same. The calls either went to voicemail or to a cold 'He's not in'. The phoning soon progressed to attempted social visits, which proved just as fruitless. America was just not to be contacted and Canada was becoming frightened for his brother.

The two had always shared a sort of connection. They were in tuned to one another in some ways and Canada could just feel that something was amiss with his brother. He couldn't place it or give the sensation a name. He only knew that it was a keening, nagging sort of white noise in the back of his mind. The static never retreated and it left him feeling anxious.

Finally the moment came when Canada got his answer as to what was wrong with his brother.

He had been visiting New York with no particular aim in mind. Months ago he had learned America's apartment downtown had been empty, the nation not having returned for some time as the landlord had informed Canada. It was a vacation of sorts, one which he just kept praying to see Alfred walking the streets of New York, burger in hand and everything as it should be. The day came when he did run into his brother, just not in the New York streets and not with everything as it should have been.

Glancing over, Canada spotted a shock of blond so much like his own. The twinge in his stomach gave Alfred away immediately though his brother's back was to the street and traffic just outside the store. Canada glanced up at the boutique sign hanging over the double doors. The sign read 'Expectations' in curling, pink cursive. While musings as to just why America was in a women's clothing boutique would have kept anyone else standing there dumb and wondering, Matthew was too overjoyed to have finally found his brother for those thoughts to properly process.

Instead, he shoved open the glass doors and approached his brother, at once flinging his arms around America and resting his head on his brother's shoulder. Canada stiffened for a moment while America chuckled and patted his head. Curiously, Canada looked up at his brother's face, unable to make anything out given the angle, but soon his eyes drifted downward. His mouth hung slack for a moment.

"Here's my boyfriend now! What great timing, honey," Alfred chirped, patting Canada's head again. This time the gesture was rather rough as America continued conversing with the bemused saleswoman standing before him. "My new gal pal was just telling me about all the latest trends. Wouldn't you like to go look around while I keeping talking, Mattie?"

There was no room for refusals just by the way America spoke. Canada found himself unwillingly flinching as he quickly stole his limbs back and awkwardly made his way to a side rack filled with various garments. He made sure not to stray that far away, wanting to hear just what Alfred had to say to the sales lady. Suddenly, the boutique name made sense and those pesky thoughts from earlier were lent a voice within his mind.

Expectations.

Expecting.

Pregnant.

"So, like I was saying Jamie, I don't want anything too frilly. As you can see, I'm a bit of a tomboy myself. Well, okay, a huge tomboy. Care to help a girl out?" America chattered on, seemingly unfazed.

Canada nearly choked upon hearing his brother unconvincingly pretend to be a girl. America hadn't even bothered to attempt changing his voice. He sounded like some crackpot trying to convince his fellow citizens that aliens were going to invade and create half breed babies with human women. The girl, Jamie, didn't seem as disturbed as anyone else would have be. Instead, she smiled, amused, and led Alfred to the back of the shop. She began pulling shirts and various other articles of clothing and held them up to America's frame.

Right then, Matthew couldn't determine the appropriate action for the situation. He wasn't sure if he should hide behind the racks from embarrassment, pipe up that he was not, in fact, his brother's boyfriend, or to just outright throttle Alfred for being so insensible about. . . Well, about damn near everything. After all, it appeared America hadn't taken anything he, France, and England had said to heart. Right then, Canada's mind was in a swirl of what to dos, how to dos, and best ways to beat his brother to a bloody, mushy pulp.

Before his thoughts could turn in a singular mass of brutally murdering his brother, America came back. That award winning smile still gracing his lips and the handles of a paper bag clasped tightly in one hand. He looked to Canada, grabbing his hand, as he said rather loudly, "Let's go, honey! Time to head home!"

Jamie giggled from behind the counter, waving excitedly and wishing America all the best.

As soon as they were cleared of the boutique, Canada squeezed his brother's hand and yanked them onto a near by bench at a little cafe. Luckily, they were far enough away from the hustle and bustle of the tables that none of the workers really took notice and the two were left to their own devices as the sea of faces surged on before them. America seemed about ready to protest but Canada beat him to it, voice startlingly quiet but vicious.

"What the hell, Alfred," the Canadian hissed. He squeezed his brother's hand painfully.

With a wince, America stole his hand back, rubbing at it as he set the bag between his legs, "Dude, seriously. Calm down, didn't know that whole boyfriend thing would get you so pissed."

"I'm not pissed about that!" Canada shrieked. He was about to pull an England and go on a tirade, as uncharacteristic of him as it were, but America cut him off.

"Seriously, Mattie, chill. If it's about the whole preggie thing, I got it handled. Alright?"

He couldn't hold onto his anger. Instead, Canada sighed and hung his head, wanting to crawl into a hole. His brother was so dense. Did he not comprehend just how serious the situation was? Had they not been clear back at the hotel all those months ago? It had sure as hell seemed to sink then; yet, there was the proof America had not listened. That once tiny bump was larger. It looked like America was housing a watermelon beneath the cotton of his tee shirt. It left Canada wondering just how far along America really was. The bump, no, gigantic bulge, was too big to just be five months.

"Yea, sure looks like you do. Alfred, you really need to-"

America leveled his brother with a cheerful look that clearly screamed 'Shut the hell up'. It was just a more pleasant way to convey the message. With an absent shrug, America's look softened and he patted his brother's back and slouched down to Canada's level as far as his swelled stomach would allow.

"Look, I talked with my boss' doctor and explained a little," America soothed. "He said since I'm so goddamn special and awesome that I can go through with it whenever I want. I just. . . Haven't decided."

"Decided?" Canada squeaked, he sat straight once more, looking at his brother as if the man had morphed into a toaster. "There's nothing to decide!"

"Sure there is!" America shot back quickly, still smiling and even laughing. It was genuine. "I talked with Russia about some shit then thought about it for a couple months. Man, I got such a headache, but I'm still thinking it through, 'kay?"

"Alfred, you need to listen to us. To me," Canada pleaded. He couldn't understand why America was being so-

"When have I ever listened to anyone?"

America.

There was his answer. America was America. America was a hard head that rarely listened to anyone other than his own ego. They both laughed despite the situation and Canada's shaking hands. Once they quieted, America took on a sort of surreal and unnaturally serene look before he grabbed up one of his brother's trembling hands. With careful ease, he stretched out Matthew's hand and placed the palm against his belly.

Canada almost couldn't breathe.

There, just beyond the taunt, stretched flesh, was a faint but unmistakable throb from Alfred's belly. Then another and another, in quick succession, before the movement stilled and there was only an unyielding warmth beneath his palm.

"That's what's making it so difficult. You guys never let the poor things grow enough to get to experience it. How am I supposed to kill something when it kicks my liver whenever I think about doing it?"

Alfred paused for a moment.

"Alright, bad way to phrase it. But you know what I mean."

Canada nodded dumbly. "Why the clothes? If you haven't decided, I mean."

America released his brother's hand and shrugged once more, pushing himself from the bench and grabbing up his bag, "Boss said I should and the little guy's been ruining all my good shirts."

His hand was extended but Canada just looked at it numbly. Really. What was he supposed to do? Alfred was playing with his life by letting the baby mature. Already it had gone on so long America couldn't clearly decide what to do. That was bad. Incredibly bad. But what could he say to sway his brother? He didn't want to lose Alfred.

Eventually he took the offered hand and stood. He was rewarded with an approving grin.

"Atta boy! Now, let's go to my apartment. My pelvis hurts like a bitch."

Canada nodded once more.

From there, the northern nation had done the only thing sensible, sat down and ate dinner with America before quickly excusing himself to place an emergency call to England and France. An intervention was in order, that much he had come to conclude. Though, this time, Matthew was wary of letting Alfred out his sights. His finger paused over the send key when America popped up and informed his younger brother he was going out to get more food.

"Be back in twenty minutes," Canada warned sternly. Well, as sternly as a Canadian could.

America nodded excitedly before ducking out the doorway and leaving Matthew in the hall to make the call. Soon as his brother was out of ear shot, he pressed the key and pressed the phone to his ear. It rang and rang before France's voice came over the line, seductively purring that he was currently out and to leave a message. Canada huffed, ending the call and moving onto England.

The phone rang only twice before the other nation picked up.

"Kirkland speaking, wha-. Frog! Get your hands away from my arse this instant or I swear I will-"

"Arthur! It's about Alfred," Canada quickly cut in. He shifted from foot to foot, nervous.

"You found him?"

Whatever France had been doing to England moments ago was already forgotten as the line quieted, waiting expectantly for Canada's answer. The boy toyed with his lower lip, worrying it, as he continued the switch foot jig.

"Yea, he was back in New York. He still hasn't gotten an a - a. . ." He couldn't get the word out. It seemed almost taboo just to think of it. The word brought up still painful memories for him.

"You have got to be joking," England breathed. Then came a sort of steely edge to his voice. "That lad is going to have me pissed before five. We'll be right over. Don't let him out of your sights."

Canada never got the chance to answer. The call was ended quickly and he found himself standing alone in the hall, glancing nervously towards the stairwell for his brother to return. How long had it been? Certainly not long enough for America to run to a convenience store and back. He decided to sit in the living room and try to wait patiently. Ten minutes ticked by. Ten soon lapsed into twenty. Twenty became forty. Forty became an hour.

He tried phoning his brother, about ready to crawl out of his skin, only to be met instantly with Alfred's voicemail.

Truth be told, America wasn't purposely ignoring his brother's calls or trying to worry Matthew. As the nation hummed to himself, he only nestled down into his seat and popped a pair of headphones over his ears. There was a contented smile across his lips as he sank back and placed his arms just above the bulge on his stomach. The position was relatively comfortable and the previous pressure put on his pelvis was finally relieved. Thank god for small miracles.

Really, how dumb did his brother think he was? In all honestly, the meeting in New York had been a complete accident. He knew Canada wouldn't approve, knew his brother would seek the advice of the two older nations and he didn't doubt for a second that the trio would come barging in once again to demand he do this, he do that. The whole thing got old and caused him to roll his eyes in remembrance.

Really, hadn't Canada realized the airport was a scant twenty minutes from his apartment?

His own devious nature made America slink lower in his seat as the pilot's voice came on over the intercom and a slow, evil grin spread across his lips. Slowly, Alfred began to fall asleep. Faintly he felt another small kick to his hand as he drifted off. Perhaps it was imagined, but the gesture still brought a softer smile to his face as the passenger beside him allowed the nation to rest his head on her shoulder. She looked over at him fondly, allowing him to fall asleep on her.

The descent was not quite as pleasant as take off had been. He had been woken by the woman beside him roughly shaking his shoulder. With bleary eyes and a protesting whine, he looked up at her.

She was a woman of maybe forty, hair already graying as she smiled kindly and pointed to his seat belt. Right. Landing. Seat belt. He nodded dumbly and sat up, entire body protesting from the previous awkward positioning and lack of movement for the past few hours. He winced but otherwise got the task completed. Once finished, he looked out the window and hummed to himself, arms once more perched across his belly, fingers tapping away.

"You must be that strange boy my daughter was telling me about," the woman spoke up suddenly. She had a commanding but sweet tone of voice, one not unlike the man he was going to see. "Her name's Jamie, you stopped in at her shop."

He looked over, excited.

"You mean she's your daughter? Wow, man, small world. She was really nice, but, uh, you got it all wrong, ma'am. I'm a girl," he said awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck nervously.

Lying was not his thing and while he had gotten used to exercising the fib, it was still uncomfortable. The woman waved a dismissive hand at him, scowling for a moment before she looked off to the side.

"My Aunt Fanny you're a woman!" she laughed brightly and America couldn't help but flush, having been caught in the lie, and laugh as well. It was funny. He was anything but a woman. "Don't get me wrong, boy. I'm all for this male pregnancy thing. Save us women the trouble!"

They laughed again, at ease with one another. Silence reigned and America began anxiously moving his hands about as the plane settled in at the airport. The pilot's voice rang out once more. He was about to stand with the other passengers and exit the plane when the woman hurriedly pressed something into his palm. Curiously, he looked down at his hand and glanced at the small cross and chain lying there. There was an inscription simply reading 'Life' etched into the gold. He looked up to thank the woman, however odd the whole thing seemed, but she had disappeared.

"Weird," he mumbled absently, hands shoving their way into his pockets as he exited the plane.

He found his companion quickly, arms waving as if Ivan hadn't already spotted that ever bright blob that was Alfred. Russia came over, a small smile on his face, as America stepped away from the gate. The crowds began to thin the closer he drew to the American. He stilled as he looked over his friend.

"Hey, Ruski," America greeted brightly.

Russia stopped, shock written all across his features as he stood stiffly before America and just stared at his stomach. Alfred noticed the look and decided to shrug it off, instead grabbing Russia's arm and leading them towards the baggage claim area. The larger of the two was too taken aback to really protest. Really, he had thought it odd for Alfred to suddenly phone him with surprise plans of visiting Moscow. While their relationship had improved and certainly healed, it was no where near the carefree companionship they had once shared. Spontaneous social visits just didn't really happen anymore.

Alfred disengaged himself to go grab his bag. He had been planning the trip to Moscow much longer than the surprise run in with his brother. As a precautionary measure, he had told his assistant, assigned by his ever worrying president because of his odd 'condition', and had his bags secretly moved down to a waiting taxi cab. He really could be quite sneaky when the moment called for it, though, he did feel a little guilty for capitalizing on Matthew's disorientation at the situation. Oh well, all was fair in No One Tells America What To Do Land.

"You better have brought a car, my feet are killing me," America chided warmly. He wrapped his coat closer, though his stomach made the gesture incredibly difficult, and paused before the exit. He glanced over his shoulder at Russia who had been following wordlessly.

The large nation could barely recall their conversation months passed about the whole ordeal. While he hadn't offered up any concrete solutions for America, the conversation had decidedly leaned towards following the pattern of abortion taken by all the other nations. They had parted that day with, what he had thought, was a mutual agreement that that was Alfred's choice. It seemed he had been. . . Wrong.

"You alright, big guy?" America asked. His tone was laced with amusement and irritation. "Seriously, my feet ache. Let's go back to your place."

Russia nodded, his old self quickly returning as he dragged himself away from his thoughts. The old, chillingly polite and kind nature flooded back into his features as he held open the doors for America with the excuse that ladies went first. He received the one finger salute in retaliation and they both made their way to Russia's house. Unlike America's apartment, it was not close to the airport nor near as small. The building never ceased to amaze the American. He still stared dumbly every time he came to visit. This time was no different as he stared out the window of the car, thankful Russia had decided to drive.

The evening from there was not eventful. America had decided to ignore the entire topic of babies, pregnancy, and their previous conversation. Instead, he bounded around Russia's house, talking about this and that. Something about a new pop star that was swaying the hearts of every American. Something about a new law getting a lot of backfire. News on the war. They were light, informative things, kept to facts and jokes. There was little introspection considering both parties knew such things might lead to an argument. They had decided a superficial relationship would be safer but was unwanted and agreed to try to prevent disagreements as much as possible.

Some how, during the evening, America had excused himself and come back in perhaps one of the most ridiculous shirts Russia had ever seen on the American. It was some black, strapless thing. There was a band of white near the top, the bottom flowing out and away from Alfred's belly. For a moment, Russia actually forgot America's predicament; the shirt hid it well. He couldn't help but laugh, even as Alfred scolded him but laughed along as well.

Then night fell and conversation petered out. Jet lag and lack of rest nagged on America and he asked if he could turn in. Ivan nodded and lead the other nation to a spare bedroom before saying goodnight and leaving. The whole exchange was rather formal but pleasantly familiar.

America lay on the starched sheets, instantly drifting off as he quickly found a comfortable position. He didn't even bother to change, too tired to really do anything of the sort. Instead, he slipped into sleep while on his side. It probably wasn't the best of positions, but he found it relaxing enough. His mind was invaded by dreams of ice cream aliens beckoning him to come lead the cheese people on the planet Pluto, to which he told them rather scholarly that Pluto was no longer a planet, and save Princess Hukookoomoo from the dreaded Doctor Dumamama. All in all, it was a pleasant dream and one he was rather annoyed to be roused out of.

There was something, or rather, someone in the room with him. He blinked into the darkness, glasses still on, as he lifted his head from the pillow and peered into the dark. For a moment, his stomach churned. If it was Natalia, god only knew what would happen to him. Despite both his and Ivan's insistence that they were not a couple, had never been couple, and had never even been intimately involved in any such manner, she had taken up chasing him wildly with a knife she had pulled from god knew where just a few years back. The memory made him shudder but the weight that settled on the edge of his bed was too much to be the young lady.

"Russia?" America questioned sleepily, rubbing at his eyes. "Bed bugs bite your huge ass?" He laughed weakly and flopped back down onto the bed.

"_Nyet_," Ivan responded quietly.

Without warning, the nation shifted from sitting on the edge of the bed to lying down. In a series of odd wiggles, he scooted closer to America's belly till his cheek pressed awkwardly against the mound. The nation hummed contentedly, one hand under his head and the other coming up to curl around the belly bump. America was grateful for the darkness: he was red. Incredibly red.

"Uh, yea, not that this isn't weird or anything, but what in the hell as you doing?" he asked, attempting to push Russia's head away.

"Stop it," Russia ordered sweetly. "I like children and you look less of an idiot when pregnant. Go to sleep."

"You're fuckin' weird, man" Alfred grumbled.

He did stop trying to push Ivan away. After all, his efforts were proving useless and he was tired. America grumbled again before trying to get comfortable. It was difficult with a Russia all but draped across your belly. He couldn't deny the warmth of Russia's cheek, though. It was rather touching, if not still odd.

"Don't even know if I'm gonna keep it," America murmured quietly, already drifting off again.

"You won't, no one ever does, so let me enjoy this," Ivan chided.

Alfred shrugged as best he could. Really, whatever floated Russia's boat. He was too weary to protest further and it actually felt nice to have someone appreciating, in an awkward way, the fact that he was somehow knocked up instead of constantly nagging him about it. His boss, his friends. Canada, England, France. All had urged or hinted at him just getting rid of the damn thing growing within him but something was pulling at him, continuously yanking at him, and muttering that it was the wrong choice.

"Hope he kicks you in the face," America supplied warily.

**A/N: I swear it's still not shippy! Russia just has a hardon for babies and what not, promise. And don't get used to the cuteness, if this even qualifies as such. It's not gonna last, just sayin'. I already have an ending for this and I'm happy with it and only my boyfriend knows the end. Kukuku. His reaction was priceless. Anyway, not happy with this chapter. I rewrote it god knows how many times. The next one will be more epic, maybe. Whatever, you can tell I'm not used to writing things remotely cheerful. Enjoy, review, whaaaatever.**


	4. Chapter 3

There were no words to describe just how elated America was to find a lack of Russia fawning over his belly. The night before had been odd enough on its own. Having the other man there when he woke would have been infinitely worse. Faintly, in the recesses of his mind, he equated the imagined situation with getting completely hammered and waking next to someone you'd slept with the night before. The thought made him pinch his nose in distaste.

He made the decision to stop thinking of last night, finding he could place no reasonable explanation for his friend's actions. Sitting up, America shrugged and tried to will away the weariness still eating at him. Some time during the night, most likely when Russia left, he had been covered with the comforter. The air was cool but not overbearingly so. It actually helped him to wake up further as he arched his back and stretched. With a yawn, he stood and swayed for a moment.

It was still odd to have such an awkward weight distribution. He always woke swaying forward. His balance was regained quickly, leaving America to hook an arm under his belly and the other over. He winced for a moment. It always felt like some two-year-old decided to sit on his hips and bounce whenever he stood. The bouncing only got worse as he made his way to the door.

"Goddamn kid," America breathed

While walking down the hall was not so difficult, the pressure was fading after all, but the stairs proved more troublesome. He couldn't help the irritated tilt to his normal grin. After all, stairs weren't his friend. Least, they weren't now. Tentatively, he set a foot down, then another, and proceeded rather slowly down the staircase till he had three left before his feet would touch the wonderful, wonderfully close, hardwood.

Russia decided then to pop out. One look and the large nation was stifling a giggle as he watched America attempt to conquer the stairs, one side step at a time. The American glared back at him playfully, climbing down another step and preparing to descend to the next. For once, he did not protest when Russia took up his elbow and gently helped him down the rest of the steps.

His eyes flashed with amusement as America asked, "What's it with you and babying me all of a sudden? Seriously creepy, man."

"I have cooked breakfast, come," Ivan replied cheerfully.

There was a certain bounce to the other man's step. It looked unnatural and Alfred had to take a moment to compose himself. For some reason, the action had caused him to think of his friend in fairy costume, prancing up to a house in order to knock and demand candy with that frighteningly devious smile of his. The laughter was hard to stop, but somehow he managed when an alluring smell wafted his way.

"Burgers," America salivated.

He drifted rather dreamily into the kitchen, taking a seat at the homely sized dining table.

"_Da_, I do hope you will like them. I am not skilled with foods that disgust me," the Russian informed smoothly.

He set a plate before Alfred, looking so god damned cheerful as he just watched America stare at it. Their eyes met for a moment and neither could stop from laughing. Russia did not stop staring. He looked like a kid about to watch his new puppy do a trick. Really, it was adorable, if not unsettling.

"I'll have you know, burgers are just about the best thing on the planet. Just saying," America informed his friend matter-of-factly.

He began to devour the food set before him, working through the burger rather swiftly. Only for a moment did he pause to savor the odd but delightful taste. Chewing more thoughtfully than before, he chanced it and pried off what was left of the top bun. He swallowed before he let his mouth go slack.

"Peanut butter?" he choked out.

"I have heard that when women are pregnant, they enjoy odd combinations of food things," Russia put in coolly.

Some time during America's massacre of his food, the other had moved away to sit at the table and carefully spoon his own breakfast. America couldn't help but laugh, placing the bun back down. He had to admit, it was eerily thoughtful and it didn't taste half bad. He shrugged off the oddity that was the burger before him and bit down again, getting a mouthful of pickles and peanut butter. It tasted heavenly.

He was nearly done before he decided to try and start up some conversation, one question nagging at the back of his mind.

"So, why're you being so nice all of a sudden? Well, I mean, why're you so excited about me looking like a water buffalo?" he laughed again, popping the last bit of his breakfast into his mouth and feeling his stomach plead for more. "It's weird, man."

"You should learn to appreciate kindness," Russia chided softly. He finished off the last bit of his own food before continuing. "If you must know, I have a soft spot for children."

Alfred couldn't help but laugh. It wasn't a mocking sort of action, just a disbelieving and relieving one. Who would have thought big bad Russia turned into a softy when faced with a pregnant chick or a bunch of little kids? Surely if the others heard the news, they'd all join in on the laughter. America wasn't nearly so cruel as to embarrass Russia like that, though there was a time when he couldn't have wasted any time in doing so. Things had changed.

"Course you would," America chuckled. "So I take it, you want me to keep the little thing and see what happens?"

He leaned across the table expectantly, a gleam in his eyes. It would be pleasant for him to have someone encouraging him to keep it. England, France, and Canada had only insisted he get rid of it, pestering and badgering him about it relentlessly. Maybe Russia could present a valid argument to go against them. In that moment, that was what America desperately wanted.

His short period of self-isolationism had given him time to think. Sure, he was frightened that it may be true. Who wouldn't be? Dying was something nations didn't really get the luxury of experiencing. They lived for centuries and centuries, usually unchanging with the passage of time like some sort of supernatural Hollywood hero. For them, dying or fading away was more frightening than for regular humans. They were nations, lifespans infinitely longer.

Even faced with the possibility, he just couldn't bring himself to really go through with it. Those times when he would cradle his cellphone close, Dr. Birch's number already up on the screen and just waiting for him to press send, a hand would find its way to his steadily growing belly and something would stop him.

It was a not wholly pleasant feeling. There was warmth, which spread throughout his entire body, and there was comfort and joy and the knowledge he was being presented the opportunity to give something _life_. Males weren't supposed to be able to wield that power, but he had it. He had that power. Now everyone wanted him to throw that power, that _gift_, away. He couldn't bring himself to call Dr. Birch through those four months. The phone would always be in hand, but he would never call. His thoughts would tumble around haphazardly and trip over one another as he tried to think of some solution that wouldn't leave him feeling like a creep.

Underneath all that philosophical talk of bringing life to another and the warmth, all of it, there was also a dangerous undercurrent that pulsed beneath his fingers every time. It was a negative feeling, all consuming but resting on the very edges of his consciousness. It was a venomous thing. A rotting thing.

"I do not," Russia answered, grinning.

America's eyes fell, looking down at his empty plate. He wasn't so hungry anymore and his childish hope fled swiftly. Of course Russia wouldn't say yes. He was beginning to get the idea that no one would say yes. He just couldn't bring himself to side with any of them, though. Least, not yet.

Thankfully, he didn't have to explain his downcast eyes as his phone went off in his pocket. He had forgotten he even had the damn thing. With a grunt, he reached down and plucked it out, seeing not Canada's or even England's number, but, rather, his boss'. Alfred mouthed the words 'Gotta take this' and turned in his seat before answering the call.

"'Sup?" he greeted.

"Alfred, good. Where are you? I've been getting calls from the Canadian embassy that you've gone missing."

Always to the point. He liked that about his boss. With a lop sided grin, America shrugged despite the lack of visual connection, "I went to see Russia. Matt freaks out too much."

"Matt?"

He rolled his eyes, "Canada. Anyway, I'll be back soon probably. It was just a short little visit for some chit chat."

"Good. I know I said you should take some time off, but there's a world meeting in three days and I need you to attend."

_ Oh shit._

"Normally, with your condition, I wouldn't ask anything of the sort but it seems they've planned some very important events and I need you to be present."

"Yea, yea!" America filled in hastily. "I'll do it, no worries. I'll be on the next plane back to New York and jet over to. . . Shit, where's it being held?"

"D.C."

"Ah. . . Alright. Then jet over to D.C. I've got some things to pick up at home."

"Alright, hurry back."

He shoved his phone back into his pocket without saying a proper farewell. America crossed his arms, slumping down in his chair and pouting. Honestly, any other time he wouldn't mind going to a meeting. They were fun. Least, for him they were. He knew what was going on though. Obviously, the three jackasses, as he had slowly begun to lovingly refer to them as, had planned the meeting. No doubt, they fed his boss with some bull about it being important, blah, blah, blah. Just to get him in one place so they could gang rape his ears with more insistence on him doing what they wanted.

America huffed, "Those assholes! They did this on purpose."

Russia seemed surprised, having listened in on the conversation, "There is a meeting?"

Sulking, he nodded, "Yea, probably called for by Arthur or something. Just 'cause they can't get me to stay in one place. Geez, all they had to do was ask instead of trying to be sneaky and crap."

"I was not informed," Russia supplied.

America shrugged, pushing away his plate and standing. "You might. Iunno what they're planning. But, hey, sorry I gotta cut this so short, but I should be going."

"I will get your bag and bring the car up!" Ivan replied.

It was an instant reaction and America could only raise a brow as he watched the Russian abruptly stand and move out of the kitchen. Absently, a hand rubbed at his belly. If anything, the whole being pregnant thing had certainly improved his relation with Russia. That was for sure. Whether he really liked it or not was up for question. After all, he was still a man, damn it. A man.

"You're killing my masculinity here," he mumbled.

The nation stood soon after Russia's disappearance, moving into the entrance hall to wait for Russia to return. He heard Ivan tromping down the stairs before he ever saw him come around the corner with a small luggage bag in hand. America was going to take his bag but, as his hand reached out to retrieve it, Russia pulled it away and yanked open the door. Thankfully, America had shrugged on his coat. A cold chill entered the hall and made him shiver as he clutched his coat closer and went out to the car.

The drive to the airport was quiet but not unbearably so. They departed with formal goodbyes after America all but hassled the ladies at the counter for a ticket back to New York. He was seated on the plane, ready to take off, when he pulled out the cross, almost forgotten in his pocket. Almost pensively, he stared down at it.

It was almost like the woman had known what he was thinking, what he was being pressured into doing, and had sent her own little message through the simple exchange of a gift. Then again, maybe he was reading too far into things. After all, life was a common inspirational message which any number of conclusions or assumptions could be drawn. It was a cross. Crosses had come to symbolize many things. The whole thing just made his head hurt and he quickly gave up that train of thought as the plane lifted off and he did his best to fall asleep.

After a fitful slumber, he awoke back in New York. With a groan, he stood and followed the other passengers out, unaware of their odd looks and poorly concealed whispers. He was too anxious of the coming day to care much.

When he returned to his apartment, Canada was not there. It was a little bit of a surprise. He had figured his brother would be there, ready to chew him out like it was 2012. Instead, there was only his empty, messy little apartment. It relieved him. He couldn't shrug the feeling of dark, impending storm cloud that something bad was going to happen though. It was a pestering and confusing feeling but one he expertly ignored as he went about repacking and preparing to fly to Washington the next day.

As time passed and the day finally came for the world meeting, his nervousness had only amplified. The great, powerful, totally epically _awesome _America was terrified. From what his aides said, the other nations had all arrived and it was like any other meeting. Instead of soothing him, it just made him wonder what was up. He wasn't keen on the idea of his close friends trying to embarrass him in front of, literally, the world.

His boss had said he had to go and the meeting had started fifteen minutes ago. Sure, heroes got scared, but heroes certainly didn't hide out in bathrooms and stare pensively into a mirror. That thought alone made America let out a resigned sigh as he stood straight and squared his shoulders. He looked himself over in the mirror, silently looking for confirmation that he was, in fact, brave enough to go into a room filled with vindictive and, at many times, bitchy nations.

Despite the rather feminine maternity baby doll shirt and sweatpants, he still looked like America. Maybe the bomber jacket and Texas helped. Who was he kidding? Of course they helped. For the first time in the past few days, he smiled broadly. He was still America, despite whatever the others may say.

That mentality helped to drive him from the bathroom, though it faltered as he stood outside the conference doors. He shifted his weight, hand on his belly. Now or never. Just following orders.

So he shoved the doors open, face nearly split in two by his grin, and stood in the doorway, "The hero has arrived!"

The room quieted and everyone stared. They just _stared_. Many were too taken aback to say anything. Some were out right horrified. America was undeterred. He strode forward, shutting the doors, and took his usual seat between England and Canada at the head of the table. Leisurely, he leaned back in his seat and rested his folded hands over his belly, the smile never falling.

"So, what's this meeting about?" he asked casually, looking over to England.

The man looked absolutely furious and about to yell at his old charge when Germany stood, hands coming down on the table top roughly as he bellowed, "America! What is this about?"

"What's what about?" the nation replied, blinking and pushing his glasses up with his thumb. "I don't know why we're all here just like you, ya know."

Germany gestured helplessly towards the nation's swelled belly. His face was red and that tint only intensified when Italy began to chime into the floundering conversation. He was talking rapidly, half Italian, and America couldn't understand a word he was saying. From beside him, Romano joined in and began scolding his brother, directing insults at both America and Germany. Spain jumped in as well, soon followed by France, then Switzerland, then Lichtenstein as the domino effect soon took over. Most of the Middle Eastern and some of the Nordic nations were out right laughing.

God, America wanted to blush from embarrassment. He knew all eyes would be on him and his less than subtle belly bump. Attention was something he sought and loved, but this kind was just unpleasant and overbearing. There were disbelieving stares, shocked faces, and arguments amongst everyone. Somehow, he controlled himself and sat there, unmoving and unwavering.

His eyes swept across all in the room. More than once he had to stifle a chuckle. He was picturing some of the others in his same position: pregnant. Images of Sweden sporting a belly in a flowing day dress made him choke back laughter. When coupled with the image of an equally knocked up Denmark, he could no longer restrain himself. His eyes moved on to Germany. Now, there was a hilarious image. Soon his thoughts drifted to Cuba, cigar in hand, wearing a revealing evening gown and one hand under an impressive belly bump.

He couldn't help himself. America clutched at his sides and just laughed, face pinched and eyes welling with tears. The laughter was so uncontrollable, Canada reached out and weaseled an arm around his back and leaned in close, asking if everything was alright. America could barely choke out an 'I'm fine' let alone the reason for his near hysterics. Things grew awkwardly quiet as all the attention was shifted towards America once more. The nation had to fight hard to get a handle on himself and the comical mental images.

"Are you okay, Al?" Canada questioned.

America was honestly touched by his brother's concern. He was near getting his laughter under control when England cleared his throat loudly. With a few last chuckles, America looked over at him, smiling brightly as he always did. There was a knot of dread winding tighter within him, but America tried to ignore the increasing discomfort.

"I'm sure you're quite aware why we're here America. This is a serious concern and it's obvious you have not listened to our advice," England informed America, glaring softly.

"Hey!" the nation protested, pointing a finger. "I'm free to make my own choice!"

"That decision affects us all!" Germany roared, inserting his own opinion on the matter.

America pouted, turning his gaze to the German, "What do you mean? Far as I can tell, I'm the only one suffering."

Germany worked at his temple, lowering his head before he looked up and tried to sit straighter, tried to be all commanding, "America, think of it. Were a child to take your place, it would leave your country vulnerable. If there is a shift in power, none of our positions are secure."

America thought about it for a moment, the look of childish rebellion and displeasure never slipping even as he turned to stare at his lap. Well, his belly, really. The bump was too large to allow him to stare pensively at his lap anymore. The moment he looked subdued, the others began chiming in.

"Like, seriously, you can't just go do that. It's _so uncool_," Poland asserted with a roll of his eyes.

Australia chimed in next, "Ay mate, know it's not a pretty thing, but it's gotta be done."

"He's right, Al," Canada joined. "Listen to us."

America's gaze snapped up, blue clouded over with anger as he stood. One hand gripped the edge of the table, the other lay on his belly protectively. He gave the room a once over glare but no one stopped talking. All of them were beginning to put their own word in on the subject.

First Lithuania spoke up, "America, you have to. All of us have."

Damn. America backed down some as he looked to his friend. Lithuania was such a sweet person and hearing him join in on the others side was serving to sway him. America refused to be done in that easily. He was about to rebuke everyone again, saying that it was his choice, his child, but there was more chatter.

The voices began to swirl, making America dizzy as the hand on the table became more a support than just a convenient place to grab. It was getting harder to breathe. Everyone seemed to be yelling, all the sounds mingling with one another and combining into some incoherent bubble that pressed down on him. His heartbeat sped and the room began to spin some. The longer he stood there, just feeling the horrid buzz within his skull, the louder the room got and the closer to toppling over he came.

"Everyone's right, America. You have to do it," Italy said almost mechanically. He was staring down at his hands, that overzealous joy gone as he was no doubt remembering a time when he had been in the same position.

"'t's w'at h's ta b' d'ne."

"Do not be a fool, America."

"We know what's you're going through, America."

"We'll be here, but you have to, America."

America. America. America.

That's all Alfred heard over the roar. They were all saying his name and literally drowning him in their attentions. The got worse and everything was getting fuzzy. He could hardly make out who he was looking at anymore and a pain began to mount just below his hand. For a moment, America thought it was just the baby's supernatural tendency to convey it's opinion by viciously kicking. The pain did not ebb though.

It grew till America sat back down, eyes wide and smile gone as he tried to regain his bearings. The room did not stop spinning and his hand never released the table's edge. Instead, he sat back and tried to keep the pinched look off his face. No such luck. Canada noticed the change in his brother and tried to stop the others from talking. They were all still going on, saying America, America, America.

"Guys! Shut the hell up!" Canada ordered. He looked to his brother, trying to coax out of him just what the problem was.

America couldn't answer; his tongue felt thick as he tried to decide which Canada to look at. One, two or three? He couldn't quite decide. The room still spun and the voices still called out. America, America, America.

America, America-

"Al! You're bleeding!"

The Canadian looked half frantic as America's nose began to bleed. The nation hadn't noticed and didn't care. Hesitantly, the hand on the table rose to dabble at his nose. He looked down at his hand, finding, in fact, quite a bit of blood coating his fingers. When he looked back up, there was a trio of Englands beside the group of Canadas and his stomach throbbed painfully.

Didn't any of them realize? Every since he found out, America had been tearing himself apart, trying to decide. He knew the others would be affected, that there were many who would take advantage of an infant nation. He knew and yet it was still so hard. There was something growing inside him, there was life.

It was America's well kept secret: he had never killed anyone. All the wars, all the conflicts, he had never shot another. Taking life just didn't seem right for him. His job was to save people, to preserve life. He routinely offered humanitarian aid when needed and often visited the areas it went to. He did not often visit battlefields, least, not when a battle was in progress. All the wars, he had taken up helping the medics to patch up and save who he could.

Even now, he wasn't sure he could take anothers life. Sure, the thing in his belly hadn't been born yet. Obviously, it was still in his belly. He had never seen its face, it didn't have a name. It was just there but it was _alive_. It kicked him when displeased or just because; it warmed him and helped lull him to sleep. Sometimes, America even liked to fancy he could feel its heart beat just below his palm.

How could he kill something like that, something so fundamentally _alive_?

The voices quieted to a murmur and the hand pressing a cloth to his nose wasn't there. He felt sort of numb as the pain in his belly overtook everything else. _What's happening?_ he wondered dumbly, just staring off. Someone was calling his name. _When aren't they calling my name?_

"America! You bloody tosser, answer me," England commanded, clutching his former charge's wrist tightly.

Canada was on the other side, pressing his hanker chief to America's nose to try and stem the bleeding. He looked worried and frayed as he moved his other hand about America's back. He was chanting 'Al, Al, come on talk, Al' over and over again. The nation before him did not respond.

The only answer to their efforts was the sudden silencing of the room as America fell unconscious and slumped onto Canada's chest, unmoving and breathing shallow.

**A/N: Whoo, third installment. It's a lame one, I know. Tried rewriting it several times only to suck more and more. Next will be better, pinky promise. Sorry if there's more errors in this than usual. I fix those kind of errors literally right before I upload something and I'm pretty hungover and maybe still drunk from the night before. AKA, my brain is dead. My bad. Read, review, don't drink and drive, kids.**


	5. Chapter 4

His head felt fuzzy, his tongue thick, and body sluggish, but somehow America willed his body to sit up and eyes to open. Things were just a blur, splotches of random colors. He groaned and began groping around blindly for Texas. Eventually his fingers met cool glass and cold metal. He sighed with relief and put the glasses on, shoving them onto the bridge of his nose carelessly.

His brain was still working on waking up, but something just felt _off_. He ignored the feeling, opting instead to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and stand. For a moment, he swayed on his feet before regaining his balance and stretching languidly. His back popped, shoulders following suit.

From what he could see, he was in his own room. The light was soft and air cool, either dawn or dusk. The smell of pancakes began wafting and America was driven to follow the scent before he could take in anymore of his surroundings. After all, his stomach was growling loudly and left him with no time to think on things he should have thought on.

Someone was in his house making breakfast. The back of his mind pointed an accusatory finger at Canada. His brother was the master of pancake making.

"Mattie," America whined, coming down the hall towards the kitchen. He silently cursed the cold wood floors bringing goose bumps to his arms as his feet pattered across the surface. "I'm so hungry."

"R-right in here, Al," came Canada's hesitant reply.

America groaned, rubbing at his cheek with the palm of his hand as he rounded the corner. For a moment, he stood and stared. It was every day he saw Canada making pancakes, England sitting at the island with a cup of tea, France poking through his fridge, and Russia standing calmly in the doorway to the living room. America quirked a brow. He silently questioned but otherwise said nothing, opting instead to take a seat across from England as he waited for his pancakes. His mind was still buzzing, completely unfocused.

"Did anyone make coffee?" America yawned, sitting back in his stool and looping an arm around the back.

Curiously, he looked about the kitchen and at the coffee maker on the counter. Sure enough, it was full up of the caffeinated beverage. He was about to get up and get himself a cup when Russia quickly strode over and pulled a mug out of the overhead cabinet. Again, America silently questioned but otherwise said nothing, even as the mug of coffee was set before him and Russia returned to his earlier post.

France had given up digging through his fridge. Instead, he went to the doorway leading to the bedrooms and leaned against the wooden frame. America shrugged and looked to England, taking a sip of his coffee.

Another curiosity came as he watched England look from his cup of tea to America to the tea to America. There was something undecernable in his gaze, something America couldn't put a word to. It made the American shift uneasily in his chair as he looked over his shoulder to Canada.

"Why've you guys here?" he asked lightly, wanting to break the silence. A moment's pause then he remembered, "Oh, yea."

He sighed thoughtfully, thanking whatever higher power there was that he had friends and family who cared. He had passed out at the meeting. It made sense that the others would still be around, checking up on him and babying him. The notion brought a drowsy smile to his lips. Even if the notion of being coddled and fawned over didn't quite sit well with him, America knew it was just them showing they cared.

"I'm glad to see you're handling this so well," England said curtly, taking a sip from his tea.

America laughed, "What? Randomly passing out? Shit happens, I feel fine. Really bleh, but fine."

He was beginning to wake up and the sense that something was wrong became stronger. It made him shift again in his chair and gaze shift downward. America froze. His body clenched and every muscle tightened as his eyes grew wide and hand squeezed the mug handle till his knuckles were white. England hadn't been talking about his fainting spell at the meeting.

There was no bump on his belly any longer. Instead, there was a huge gash running the length of his stomach, held together by black, surgical thread. The edges were still red. The mark looked ugly and _fresh_. There were trances of excess weight clinging to his midsection.

His gaze snapped up and narrowed as he glared at England. America's words were tense and pinched, forced through gritted teeth, "What the _fuck_ is this, England?"

The Brit stiffened, hand hovering just beside his cup of tea. He looked a bit frightened but remained calm as he replied evenly, "There's no need to use such language, Am-."

"Shut up!" America spun in his chair, directing the venomous gaze towards his brother's back. "What in the fuck _happened_, Canada?"

Canada froze. He flinched as his brother used his more formal name but the look went unseen as he kept his back to America. He was glad when Russia interjected, telling America that he needed to calm. Canada was nearly as bad a liar as America.

America did not listen. He demanded again that Canada tell him what had happened. France tried to speak up but America cut him off with a curt bark of "Shut up." England tried then, tone warning and wary, but he received the same answer, albeit louder and more forceful. Canada fidgeted, grabbing up the stack of pancakes and methodically going over to the island and setting the plate down. He didn't meet America's eyes though he could feel his brother's gaze boring into the side of his skull.

"Tell me," America demanded, voice low and deathly calm.

"Uh, w-well," Canada began. He laughed a nervous action. "There was, was a complication and-"

"There was a complication with the baby, America. It had to be removed," England cut in quickly. He knew Canada wouldn't be able to lie to his brother. "If it hadn't been done immediately, you would have died. You need to calm down before you do something brash and tear your st-"

"Shut up!" America roared. "I want to hear it from Canada!"

He didn't look away from Canada, even as the ceramic of the mug handle cracked and shattered in his hand. He could feel the shards embed themselves in his flesh, but he didn't care. His gaze never wavered as he willed Canada to look at him. It worked. Darkened blue met indigo and the two stared at one another. Canada quickly looked away.

"Y-yea. There was a complication and the t-twins had be removed," he rambled quickly, toying with the edge of his sweatshirt. "There was- there wasn't anything the doctor c-could do he said. You were out so I had to make the decision. I-I didn't want you to die, because that's what the complication would have done. So, I t-told him to do it. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Al."

"You're lying," America seethed.

He raised his bloody hand and knocked the plate of pancakes on the floor. The platter shattered and the food spilled across the floor. America rose, legs shaking as he finally became aware of the throbbing at his midsection. For a moment, it seemed America calmed as his head lowered and hands became balls at his side. The room was silence save for the dripping of America's blood on the tile.

The rage quickly flooded back as the nation whirled and kicked the stool he had once been sitting in. America growled and pulled his fist back. He was ready to punch the counter when Russia came up behind him and restrained him. America twisted and squirmed within Russia's grasp. Faintly, America felt a few of his stitches tear. He didn't care; he got away from Russia.

"You're fucking _lying_! Right to me face!" America nearly screeched. "You took advantage of me while I was out!"

"Alfred! Calm down!" England ordered.

He stood from his chair and made a move to come around the island counter to confront America. He was stopped when America turned on him with a predatory look. For a moment, he wanted to shrink back. He hadn't thought America would be quite so livid. Angry, yes, but not this.

"Calm down?" America repeated. He reared back and laughed. It was a hollow sound. "I'd like to see how you'd act if this happened to you! What gave you the right to decide this for me? What?"

"It endangered us as well as you, Alfred," England replied. His words were clipped, business like.

Russia stepped forward, ready to grab America again, "He is right, America. You were taking too long to make the obvious choice."

"I was going to keep it! Them! Fuck," America laughed again. "Twins even."

"Al, you couldn't do it," Canada tried to reason. "You're bleeding, come on. Let me fix you up."

Canada came forward. He raised a hand hesitantly, going to put it on America's arm and lead the nation back to his bedroom. America was quick to pull his arm away, nearly slipping on a small gathering of his own blood in the process. The wound on his stomach began to steadily leak. It ran down in thin streams and stained his boxers before droplets fell to the floor.

"Don't touch me!" America breathed. He was breathing hard and felt himself becoming dizzy. His mind fogged over once more as he growled again and struck out blindly. His fist struck Canada squarely in the jaw. "Don't ever touch me again!"

America was about to lash out at Canada again when his world went black. Russia stood behind America's crumpled body. When France and England sent him rather vicious looks, he shrugged helplessly and just watched as Canada hoisted up America bridle style. What was Russia supposed to do? It was obvious America would not listen to reason and needed medical attention. Naturally, his solution had been to clock America in the back of the head and knock him out. Despite how the others viewed his course of action, it was still effective.

Group moved soundlessly back to America' bedroom from there. Canada carried America while England followed closely, France at his heel, and Russia bringing up the rear. America was laid out on his rumpled sheets, blood soon staining the otherwise unmarred white. France was quick to disappear into the joint bathroom. He came back caring a small medical case and set it down on the bedside table as he sat on the left edge.

With ease and grace, France opened the case and pulled out a sterilized needle and thread. He set to work, a look of serene calm across his face. England watched on worriedly, occasionally glancing back at Russia in the doorway. Canada was less weary of Russia, more thankful than anything. As a hesitant hand rose to his cheek, he guessed the bone was at least fractured if not worse. He would need to see a doctor about it, eventually. America was his focus in that moment.

Alfred looked calm despite his earlier aggression. The features of his face were slack and there was a sense of tranquility about him. He didn't flinch or twitch or involuntarily groan as France worked. Instead, he lay there, placid and unmoving. It was nearly unnerving, but Canada kept his resolve. There was no inner ache indicating severe physical damage, just rather a dull ache of mental anguish.

He felt horrible for allowing something like this to happen. He and his brother had always been close, nearly inseparable, and now this, he just knew, would ruin all that. It was weaken and strains their relationship. It would weaken the ties America had with all them. With everyone even.

Canada could understand his brother. While he had never let the pregnancy go on long enough for the signs to show, he knew the pain of killing something so intimate. The decision had nearly torn his mind in two and the act had broken his heart and left him numb for a month after. Eventually, France had coaxed him from the self-induced depression.

His brother would have a much easier time; he was sure of it. There were many who cared for America, who had his best interests at heart. In their own way, by ordering the doctor to just take away America's child - children they had discovered - was just another way of showing their care and devotion. They had been protecting America from his worst enemy: himself. They wouldn't allow him to slip away because he was stubborn. Canada, especially, couldn't allow that to pass.

France finished up and stood wordlessly to put back the medical kit. He didn't return to the bedroom, instead choosing to hide out in the bathroom. He mentally rebuked himself for letting the others so selfishly deprive America of the children he had obviously wanted to keep. Who were they to decide something like that? Who were they to use such underhanded tactics? He wondered those things while perched on the bathroom counter.

Russia did not move from the doorway. He stood, rooted to the spot, and stared unwaveringly at America. For all the times he had wished ill upon the nation, this was not one of those things. The heart wrenching situation America had been caught in made him furious and pity America.

Like the others, he had never let the child growing in his belly to mature. Instead, each time the incident occurred, he was swift to take action and rid himself of it. Self preservation. That was all it was. Despite his all consuming love for children, the basic instinct to survive had always been too great. Besides that, General Winter would not have approved and Ivan had never felt particularly inclined to displease the man.

England stared down at America impassively, his face blank. There were no thoughts running through his mind. Even as he took up a towel lying on the floor to wipe at the drying blood, he thought and felt nothing. He knew he should. After all, this was America. This was the boy he had helped raised. This was his little brother.

There was just nothing.

He supposed the others were feeling at least _something_. Given France's current isolationism, Canada's solemn quiet, and Russia's softening gaze, he could only guess that the others were regretting, remembering, _something_. For him, there was just nothing. There was a whole, an abyss, where he knew something should be. Something important. Concern, guilt, sympathy. _Just something_.

There was only a stubbornly clinging _nothing_.

Perhaps that was as it should be. Perhaps France, Canada, and Russia were all blowing the whole thing out of proportion and he was the only one keeping his head level. All the nations had to go through similar ordeals. America was no more special than the others, just more stubborn. Despite the advice of those much older and wiser, America had childishly refused to listen and rebelled against the ancient truth all the others had come to understand and acknowledge.

America was being a petulant child and throwing his emotions around carelessly. He was directing his anger at those who did not deserve it, namely Canada, and had thrown a tantrum. To England, it was simply an immature nation handling a mature situation poorly.

Others had cried and gotten angry, yes. Italy had wept for days, even refusing Germany to comfort him. Ukraine had certainly take it hard. Cuba had been absolutely furious, considering his not so secret love of children, and Mexico had hidden inside herself.

Everyone else had their story to tell concerning the curious matters of the nations' tendency to pull a Virgin Mary. Each carried their own share of pain, sometimes from having lived through the incident multiple times as England had. Some had cried, some had hidden themselves away. Some had gotten angry, some hadn't particularly cared terribly much. Everyone had their own story, carrying with them a wide range of emotions pertaining to the ordeal, but they had all lived and proven that life goes on.

America was acting as if the world were ending. Yes, he had been pregnant with twins who were now buried in America's backyard, at England's insistence. That did not give America reason to cause a scene in the kitchen, wreck his own home, strike Canada, and harm himself. It was a temper tantrum at its best.

One of his absent hands worked through America's hair, smoothing it down and trying to right the usual messiness. Canada was holding America's hand, the fingers woven together and fitting well. Eventually, Russia came over as well and just sat there opposite England and Canada. He said nothing and stared down at America, making no move to touch him.

France came from the bathroom after some time. He looked as he did before going in, calm and carrying a sort of ageless grace with him. He sat beside Russia on the bed and kissed America's forehead. England glanced to his rival but did not meet the others gaze. France's eyes were trained on America's face as he too began running a hand through the golden locks.

England looked back down at America as well. He drank in the peaceful expression, the slackened look about America's whole body. His hand worked through the soft hairs. They were gold, like the rising sun, and slipped between his fingers with ease. Despite the recent surgery, America's skin was still tanned and slightly more golden than usual given the time of year. He could almost make out the numerous freckles adorning America's body. They only came out when America stayed in the sun too long.

Yes, an immature child dealing with a mature matter in a very, _very_ irresponsible and rather taxing manner. He knew things would not get any easier once America woke. If anything, there would only be more yelling, more violence, and more _immaturity_. While the prospect did not over joy England, he was willing to sit through it for America and America only.

He couldn't deny the fear for what was to come though. When England glanced over at Canada, he could see the same sort of fear. He wasn't alone in his suspicions and silently he wondered just how bad things were going to get.

Maybe, just maybe, he was overreacting and things would get better quickly. Maybe America could rebound as he always did and come back swinging, at least pretending to be better even if he wasn't. Maybe, maybe, maybe America could return to normal as the others had. After all, they had all done it. Why couldn't America?

A nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered quietly, _Because it's America_.

**A/N: . . . Man, oh man, am I sorry this took so long. All honesty, had this chapter done a long ass time ago. Problem was, I reallyreallyreally hate editing, so then tried to rope my friends into doing it. First one became a no show for the past three weeks, second got horribly ill, and finally I got one to do it. But, anyway, hope it's not complete shit and sorry if my friend jumbled, mixed things, blahblah. Uh, read, review. Yea.**


	6. Chapter 5

He was nursing one hell of a headache as America sat up. One hand went to his head; the other clutched the blanket draped over his middle. For a moment, everything was a blank. Where he was. How he had gotten there. He even forgot who he was. Then it all came flooding back. The dam was broken and he gasped as the memories collided.

That was right. He was America, in his own house, with, no doubt, a group of nations who he believed had significantly wronged him. And wronged him bad. The thought made him clench his jaw and unconsciously pull at his hair. The gesture made his head ache more and he silently made a promise to return the favor to Russia.

One eye open, then the next. America gazed impassively around his room. Canada was napping beside him with England leaning on him, half in and half out of a chair. Russia was sitting against the closed door with France sprawled across the floor not far off. The room was lightly illuminated; only moonlight and a light breeze streamed in through the open window.

America grunted and reached over across his brother, giving the side of the chair a sharp push. England yelped and fell into an undignified heap on the floor. Canada was pulled along with. The other two across the room slowly began to join the waking world. America grunted again and pulled the blanket off.

He stared down at the freshly sealed wound across his belly. The mark throbbed dully. It was red and swollen, obviously irritated with the sudden abuse from earlier. America couldn't really find the will to care.

"Out," America deadpanned.

A weary finger pointed to the door. He didn't want to deal with any of them. It was already beginning to be to much restraining his anger. As right as it would have been for him to just flip out again, America wouldn't let that sort of weakness show a second time. He planned on kicking the others out and releasing his frustrations: alone.

"I'm not leaving," came Canada's stubborn reply.

The nation's face was set, brows draw together in determination and lips pulled taunt. He hadn't yet gotten off the floor but had gotten off England at least. One hand rested in the sheets and the other kept him propped up. Canada was bound and determined to not leave. He simply wouldn't allow it, despite the dark mark on his jaw and the constant ache.

"Yea," America replied quickly, "you are."

"No, we're not, America. We're here for you," England jumped in.

America laughed and laid back down. He rolled onto his side, away from all the others, and snorted once more. "Just leave. I don't want you here and I have things to take care of."

Was it really so difficult for them to just let him wallow? All they had to do was walk out of the room, out of his house, and board the next flight out to their respective countries. It seemed so simple, yet none of them made a move to leave. There was shuffling from by the door, no doubt Russia and France moving about to stand and approach. America buried his head into his pillow in response.

"Get the fuck out," he hissed into the fabric.

A mantra of don't go off the handle, don't go off the handle, dear God, don't go off the handle masked all other thoughts as America attempted to at least restrain himself. Causing international incidents were generally frowned upon and he already felt guilty for hitting his brother. Damn it all, America felt fully justified for it all, for the rage.

"Jesus Christ! Just get out already!"

America sat up and flashed a dangerous glare at the other occupants of the room. His body was twisted, sending another jolt of dull pain spreading out from his middle. The discomfort was ignored as he sat, rigid, and willed the others to spontaneously combust, jump out the window, or combination spontaneous window jump combustion. Something like that.

France came forward and took up England's arm. The Brit began to instantly protest, opening his mouth like a floundering fish but unable to summon up any words. He was pulled from the room silently, surprisingly enough. From his corner, Russia gave a sweet little smile and a shrug before he followed the pair out. From the hall, America could hear England finally getting enough wits to begin complaining and demanding that he be released, he could walk on his own, bloody frog pervert.

Canada remained, unwavering and just as stubborn as his brother. America's gaze soon found its way to the nation still crouched on the floor. Azure and indigo, both darkened by resolve. The tension between the two was pulled taunt and America had to look away first but not without a disgruntled scoff. The bruise was too much to look at then right then. He was angry at the others for, in his honest opinion, severely screwing him over, but a tendril of malcontent rose up at himself. Canada was trying to help, had always been there to help, and he had been an ass and punched him, probably fractured his jaw.

For once, America cursed his unnatural fountain of strength.

"Get that checked out," America grunted absently.

He glared at a rather innocent looking pillow. The cotton was clean and white and smooth, no doubt the wrinkles had been worried out by absent hands. America put a hand on the pillow and made a mess of the fabric once more. His hand pulled away once the deed was done and went to running through his hair, pushing the locks from his face only to have them rebound and fall back into place.

There was silence till Canada opened his mouth to speak, but it was France's soft call for Canada to come out which flittered through the still bedroom air. When America looked back to his brother, he saw the agony, the guilt, the reluctance and he found himself rather uncaring. One last push and he could have all four of the other nations out.

"Leave now or I swear I'll shatter your jaw."

He prayed Canada wouldn't call his bluff but the rather cold tone his mind worked into the threat seemed convincing enough. Thank God for Hollywood.

Slowly, hesitantly, Canada rose from the floor. He didn't look away from America once as he shuffled to the bedroom door. There was further hesitation as the gears turned within the Canadian's skull, grasping for something to say. One last glare and all words died out before they could bloom. Canada left the room and shut the door.

There were still voices from downstairs, mostly England. Then Canada roared, shutting up the occupants downstairs. He barked out an order for the nations to file through the door. Shuffling, quieter protests, and America heard the door swing open with a weary groan. A soft voice drifted up from the floorboards, Canada's voice, softly imploring the others to exit. The door clicked shut once more, hinges protesting once more.

America pushed the covers off himself roughly before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and pushing himself up. One foot in front of the other, he slowly traversed the length of his bedroom to the adjoined bathroom. He brushed his teeth, splashed his face with cool water, and never once looked into the mirror.

For a long time, he stood there, bent over the counter, and scowling at the faucet ruefully. There was an angry snarl threatening to unleash itself and he tried to control it. He really did, but he was just plain pissed. The undignified sound sprang out as he reeled back. His reflection caught his attention on accident. Another snarl and he, unthinkingly, struck out at the offending glass fixture.

The mirror shattered and stray shards landed in the sink and along the counter. His knuckled throbbed as blood began to bead before lazily dripping down. Now he felt like an idiot and sighed, resigned. On automatic, he kneeled down and opened the bottom cabinets to pull out the first aid kit. The cleaning and bandaging process was made quickly by deft fingers and a disconnected mind.

Something living.

Something pure.

Life.

He had been gifted with the responsibility of caring for something living and hadn't even received the courtesy of deciding whether he would continue to nurture that young, so young, being. That choice was stolen away by those he considered close, family, and friends. The thought made his chest ache faintly. There was nothing he could really do now; at least, nothing to reverse what had been done.

True, he didn't fancy the idea of dying. No one did. Self preservation helped that notion. Still, he hadn't even been allowed the choice. He stood for choice, thrived on it. Vote for whomever, pick any job, rise as high as one pleased, and the list just went on and on. Choice, freedom, his principles, and the things he constantly tried to strive for. Those were taken away from him because of what he found as misplaced mother henning.

"Goddamn it," America breathed, replacing the kit before making his way from the bathroom.

His anger was quickly draining away. It only made him feel like a petulant and sulking child. He needed something to do, something that didn't require him tossing a lamp into the wall, fantasizing about kicking a puppy, or yelling at an old lady. Certainly, heroes and men of integrity did not do such things, so neither would America.

America found the task he needed in digging through his drawers, pulling out a well worn sweatshirt and jeans, before tossing the newly bought articles of clothing onto his bed. A small hill began to gather on his rumpled sheets as he made his way to the floor and to a couple of yet to be unpacked luggage cases. More clothing items were tossed onto the bed before he made his way to the bedside stand.

Hastily, he pulled out bits of paper and balled them in his fists before America grabbed up another empty bag lying on the floor. The clothes were stuffed inside roughly, uncaringly. He wasn't about to have a full out fit but roughly handling the items was working nicely as a way to vent some of the currently bottled up aggression. Stomping over to the door, shoving on some well worn tennis shoes, and America felt ready to face the outside world, at least, relatively.

The walk was short, his legs worked furiously to make sure of it. Soon, the bustling streets of New York sprang to life as shoppers and workers began crowding the streets and congesting just about everything in the near area. Thankfully, most saw it fit to avoid him as he tromped down the walkway. His hands were shoved down into his pockets, bag jostling at his side. There was only a ghost of a grin, a facade for his people. Really, he still wanted to steal a toddler's lolli or something of the like.

Expectations loomed ahead and he could only pray Jamie was working.

America thanked all and any possible Gods he could when he pushed open the door and saw the young girl standing behind the counter. As the bell above the door rang, she perked up and looked over, an instant smile springing up as she waved a hand over head in greeting. America began approaching just as the other woman, much older, opposite the counter turned to get a look at the new arrival. Whatever hello had been bubbling up died in America's throat.

Jamie and her mother stood, staring at him with kind eyes and unwavering welcome.

"Uh, hey," he finally greeted dumbly.

"Hey to you, too!" Jamie replied brightly, coming around the corner. Her eyes looked to the bag and recipes clutched tightly in America's hands, brows furrowing. "Oh no! Something happened? Oh shit, someth-"

"Language, Jamie," her mother chided, coming up beside her daughter.

While Jamie's look had fallen, her mother seemed completely unfazed. She took in the lack of a swelled belly and his obvious intent to return the maternity clothing with little more than a quick glance. One hand came out and grasped America's shoulder, gentle and almost motherly. The girl looked ready to chide her mother before she was cut off once more.

"Jamie, why don't you take his items and recipe to get everything straightened out?"

There was silence before the girl shrugged and nodded, sending America a disgruntled frown before taking the bag and wad of paper from him. She quickly fled, leaving America alone with her mother near the entrance to the boutique. Things got awkward and quickly. America shuffled his feet and clasped his hands behind his back, looking anywhere but at the woman's face.

"Thanks," he mumbled eventually.

The woman nodded and took her hand away, looking off to the sidewalk, "There were complications and you lost the baby."

"Yea," he murmured weakly, still shifting uncomfortably and staring at anything but her. "Something like that."

She nodded once more, "I know it wasn't your fault, whatever it was. You're a good person. I could tell."

Well, just what was he supposed to say that? He was far from a good person in his own mind. After all, he had been considering ridding himself of the twins and nearly done it hundreds of times over the past few months. Then he'd gotten so angry he punched his own brother. Those certainly weren't things a good person did and America was about to inform the woman but she beat him to it and filled the silence.

"Forgive and let Him guide you."

In all truth, he had never been much of a religious man. With so many other religions flooding his country, America could never quite fully believe one over the other. Something somewhere inside him took in the woman's words, though. It ate them up, devoured them, implored him to understand and heed them. Instead of delving into the realm of religious speculation and word analysis, obviously not his strong points and often causes of severe headaches for him, America scratched the back of his head and thanked the woman.

He, once again, thanked the higher powers at work as Jamie trotted back over, handing him a single recipe, and told him the money would be refunded to his debit account. America nodded, meeting her gaze instead, and mustered up a smile. Giddy, childish sheepishness kept him from looking to Jamie's mother but she didn't seem to mind. While Jamie went over to help another customer just coming from the dressing room, her mother stayed behind for a few moments before clasping the back of America's head and bringing him close.

She kissed the crown of his hair before pulling away and turning him towards the door. One little push was all he needed as his legs began working once more. No matter how hard he concentrated, the flush that had creeped onto his features would not dissipate. He couldn't shake the feeling that, despite his being the woman's age five times over, some sort of partental exchange had just occurred.

Damn his citizens.

For all regular humans' faults, he couldn't help but feel as if they knew more, understood more than he ever could. It was an odd feeling, to say the least, but not something he ever shied away from when interacting with the population at large. While Jamie's mother had given him a possibly valuable piece of advice, one which he knew deep, deep down he should heed, he couldn't find it in himself to follow through. There was still rage eating away at him. There was still some unnamable, unwanted feeling clawing at his entrails and begging to be recognized and dealt with.

He wasn't terribly sure he wanted to deal with it and, luckily, he didn't really have to dwell on those thoughts for much longer. One misplaced step and three marbles later, America was watching with detached horror as he began falling to the pavement. Knowing his luck, America could only figure that after falling face first, breaking Texas, and making a fool of himself, the rush hour pedestrians would begin to floor of the sidewalks and he would be unmercifully trampled into a bloody America puddle of goop and other unpleasant things.

Ironically enough, moments before he had wanted to hit something, hard, and now something was going to hit him, no doubtedly, hard. The crash, bang, clatter never came and America pried open his eyes, having unknowingly shut them. Whatever he was half leaning against certainly wasn't the ground or a wall. Whatever it was radiated heat no immobile object out in the chill of the city should have had.

**A/N: I'm relatively unhappy with this chapter. Sorry it's so short and, well, dumb. Say goodbye to the OCs, they'll be gtfo-ing from now on and I promise the next chapter will be better. Uhm, yea. That US vs. Slovenia match killed my brain. Uhm, that's all I really have to say I guess. Read, review, please excuse any over looked errors by my editor - I know she's not terribly the best, but she's a friend and I'm not going to ride her ass because she was kind enough to volunteer.**


	7. Chapter 6

"Uh, well, hey, thanks," America mumbled awkwardly, glancing up.

It took him a moment to fully comprehend just who was loosely holding him up. China. Freaking China. What the hell was he even doing in New York? As far as America knew, there was no scheduled meeting any time even remotely soon. Then again, he had been out of the loop for some time. . .

China nodded and helped to straighten America out once the initial shock wore off, "You are welcome, aru."

America nodded rather dumbly, taking a step back. As pleasant as it was to have China present, though distinctly odd, it wasn't a situation he particularly wanted to deal with. In all honesty, he was in a foul mood and if the churning within the pit of his belly was any indication, and not the throbbing of his still healing wound, China had appeared to lecture him on the most recent and touchy events. Sure, all the other countries had had a stake in his choice, but really, it was his private life. The thought made him unconsciously scoff to which China raised a brow but remained silent otherwise.

In a fit of nervous energy, America rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes scanning the busy streets of his beloved city. He had to figure out something to say. Silence was decidedly unheroic and unwanted. While the buzz of New York was pleasant, it didn't serve to properly soothe his already frayed nerves. Talking, he needed face-to-face conversation rather than a background din.

"So, uh, not to sound rude or anything," he drawled lazily, hands shifting to his pocket, " but why're you here?"

God, please don't say it's about this baby shit. I've had to up to here with all of thi-

"Just to chat, America, aru."

Great.

Master actor as always, America covered any distaste for such interaction and produced an award winning, if not strained, smile. It came off as more a grimace than anything and he damn well knew it. Curse recent events. They were mucking with his Oscar deserving, heart wooing, amazingly awesometastic acting skills. Somehow America had to shake China in a reasonably friendly manner. He had nothing against the Asian nation personally, he just. . . didn't want to deal with more than was necessary.

Business.

He could totally use business as an excuse. Well, for him, it technically wouldn't be an excuse. There really was work piled up, documents to sign and paperwork to look over, and while he would have liked nothing more than to properly continue ignoring such things, he knew it was time to buckle down. Eventually. Given the circumstance, he would gladly take one for the team. After all, the dull drone of bureaucratic nonsense seemed a suitable distraction from recent developments.

"Man, sorry to be a Debbie Downer, but I've got a lot of work piled up that I need to handle," he put in, once again shuffling around awkwardly. It was always intimidating being around China. The recent tense relations coupled with an obvious age difference contributed enormously. "All that official kinda shit."

To him, it sounded like a reasonably polite way to say 'Leave me alone'. Because, really, he just needed some alone time. Time to think things out and time to not be so utterly pissed off and a variety of other emotions he rather didn't like to think about too deeply upon. After ridding himself of the troublesome foursome, another roadblock was the last thing the growing ache in his skull needed. Grateful though he was to be saved from a marble induced face plant, America just wanted China, of all people, to back off, though the sentiment could be directed at anyone trying to interact with him.

China leveled him with some sort of look, one which America couldn't exactly place. Damn, and he thought he was getting better with all the reading the atmosphere bull. Instead of admitting defeat, he chalked the small loss to a lack of proper, and not Russia induced, rest.

His gaze traveled to a sad looking little alley way just to his right. Sitting there beside a pile of garbage intently biting its own rump, was one of the mangiest dogs America had ever had the displeasure of seeing in his life. It was in that moment which brilliance struck him. America grinned, forgetting his aggressive pissiness for just a moment to slip into a more maniacal and calculating anger. Hollywood would be proud of the all too cheery attitude he adopted.

One arm slung around China's slight shoulders. "You totally understand, right? Right. So, I really hate to be such a dick and just leave you hanging, but, yea." America laughed and removed his arm, giving the others back a rough pat before stepping away once more.

America turned his back. He was intent on jogging to the nearest gas station, grocery store, or anything of the like to pick up a few much needed supplies. After all, for his ingenious plan to work, so he could at least win one little victory over the wrong doers in his personal drama. He was so caught up in working out the details of his plans America failed to notice China calling out for him to stop, wait, they needed to talk. The words fell on deaf ears as America turned the corner and disappeared into a rather unimpressive looking all purpose store.

His hands ghosted over the shelves, fingers toying with this and that as he tried to pick out the things he needed. Envelopes, check. Those had been easy enough to locate. Pens weren't necessary; Lord knew he had enough littering his desk back at the apartment. Finding a leash and muzzle was proving to be a bit more difficult and, for a moment, America thought he would have to waste time and perhaps his whole opportunity to run to the nearest Petsmart. The prospect wasn't entirely pleasing to him as he pouted and continued searching.

A sound of triumph worked its way from his throat as America bent over, irritated flesh on his belly protesting dully, and snatched up a nylon leash and fabric muzzle. Not exactly what he had been looking for, but time was of the essence and he had already wasted enough of it. As he began to straighten, grinning like an idiot for the first time in what seemed like decades, he picked up the soft clink of something colliding with the tiled floors.

America glanced down, seeing the gifted cross lying forlornly on the grime flooring. It looked so out of place, the soft glow of gold against the dirt and dust of an obviously unwashed floor. The iconic figure looked almost dejected. He didn't know what to really make of it. The moment felt almost ground breaking, something worth an epiphany of sorts. There really wasn't anything of the sort.

A memory of the woman pressing the cross into his hand. Fleeting murmurs of their conversation. The pressure of the twins pressing down, kicking about. The feel of being. . . Wronged. Violated. Cheated.

Then there was anger.

The smile upon his lips faltered as he turned his back on the charm. Despite what the others thought, he wasn't entirely Christian. He believed there was something, rarely thought there was nothing, but never put all his faith into one God, one religion. Indulging just one faith always made him feel like he was crossing his people. He wasn't entirely Christian, so he didn't feel particularly like a sinner to leave that Holy symbol lying, abandoned, the ground. Someone would pick it up, eventually. Maybe. He didn't care much. Remembrance had made him bitter and livid once more.

Unceremoniously, he dropped his items onto the checkout counter. A teenager, looking bored out of his mind and determinedly snapping his gum, rang up the items before calling out the total blandly. America shoved the money over to him, mumbling for the boy to keep the change, before he grabbed up his items and drifted out of the store like hell was on his heels. After all, that damn dog may have already been gone.

Thankfully, when he returned, the mutt was still there beside the garbage and scratching himself intently. China, after being left by a near by bus stop, was the one gone. America couldn't have asked for a better turn out. Swiftly, he ventured into the less than kosher alley and dropped down on one knee before the dog. The poor thing glanced up at him. It stared at him, black beads nearly hidden by drooping lids. The fur was patchy, showing patches of gnawed away flesh, and clotted with dirt and what looked like blood.

It was one sorry looking dog.

America set right to work. His fingers worked deftly to secure the muzzle. He met no resistance, only annoyance as the dog switched to scratching itself. The rather pathetic display of the flea ridden stray helped to smother his anger and America silently wished he had some food to feed the displaced animal.

There was no helping it, though. He was on a mission and goddamn determined to follow through with it. America allowed a lazy grin to take over the grim line his mouth had set into as he secure the leash to the muzzle. He was definitely going to follow through, even if it made him a feel a little guilty on the dog's part.

The guilt didn't stop him. America set his plan into action immediately.

Two days slipped by and while America spent them lounging by his cell phone, England paced nervously on the third day. France sat beside him, seemingly at ease. Russia eyed the Brit wearily before sitting beside Canada on the love seat. The tittering nation jumped as he was joined and unconsciously scooted away. The air was thick with anxious tension. They were all waiting on America.

When a knock sounded throughout the flat, Canada jumped once more and made to dart towards the door. He was beaten by England who moved swiftly to yank the door open. Instead of America, he was met with a rather startled deliveryman. The man fidgeted as England all but glowered at him in distaste.

"What in the bloody hell do you want?" England bit out coldly.

The man shifted nervously, his hands popping out and shoving a clipboard England's way, "Delivery. Just sign and I'll bring it in."

He didn't have time for this. England could feel the others staring at him expectantly and with a scowl, he signed and shoved the board back from whence it came. More uneasiness settled as the delivery man moved back and grabbed the cart carrying the package. Once the box came into view, England cocked a brow and moved aside. Just what in the hell was going on? He had been expecting his ex-charge, not a box almost the size of his of his patio table.

There was no time for questions. The unnamed entity now within England's home slid the box from the cart and made a quick escape. He was out of sight before any inquiries could be made. England slammed the door shut behind him as he came back into the sitting room with the other nations and curious looking box. He hadn't the fainted idea what was within. Approaching, he caught a whiff of artificial lilacs and rain.

"My, someone certainly does care for you," France commented calmly, resting his face in the palm of his bent arm.

England snorted, "Belt it. I don't know what it is."

"You must open it to find out, da?" Russia cut in quickly, dryly.

He was still weary from being woken earlier that day. While England was normally conscious of time zones in the rare event that he actually phoned Russia, apparently a meeting deigned by America himself was enough to dare England to wake Russia bright and early. To Russia, the whole thing seemed curious. He knew America and knew the man well; there was something up and that bit of knowledge had been enough to propel him to England's London flat where they had been arranged to all convene.

Canada still sat by uneasily, eyeing the box with a mix of curiosity and dread. For all he knew, America could come bursting out of the box and yell at them all till he was blue in the face. Imagining America anything but caught in a rage seemed unlikely.

"I will," England shot back.

He moved to the top of the box, finding it sealed on the side by four latches. One by one, he undid the latches before stepping to the side as the board fell. There was movement within the box, a rustling, and England bent to try and seal the box once more. Why hadn't he noticed the holes in the container earlier? Someone had mailed him an animal and he had a notion as to just who had sent him it.

Whatever lay within the box was quicker than England, by far. The unknown animal darted out and bolted down the ball. The nation blanched as he got to his feet and ran after the creature. Whatever it was had gone in the direction of his personal bedroom.

As England chased the yet to be named animal, France glanced down. An envelope had slid out from the box when it was first opened. Across the front was scribbled 'Assholes' in America's scrawling chicken scratch. Canada snatched it from his hands after recognizing the writing as he tore it open. He slipped out a sheet of paper, Russia leaning over to get a look.

"Well?" France prompted from beside him. He was still sitting back, completely at ease even as England screeched from one of the back rooms.

Canada began reading the letter out loud, the words tumbling slowly from his lips as he deciphered America's writing to the best of his ability-

_Dear Dickheads:_

_Enjoy the present. Thinking of you. Still pissed off so fuck off. 'Till I feel like forgiving you guys, see ya._

_Sincerely,_

_One Badass MFin' Hero, a.k.a. America_

The message got across well enough. France was trying to stifle his laughter while Russia outright giggled. The letter fell to the ground as Canada blanched. Apparently America was still mad: very mad. That anger was partially directed at him and, while Canada wouldn't deny that he deserved to be the object of America's anger, he'd thought getting socked in the jaw would have been enough.

Apparently not.

France and Russia reigned in their chuckles as the still unknown beast yelped and darted across the three nations laps. The thing was a blur of gray and black until it settled in Russia's lap for a moment to nibble at its own bottom. The nation turned chair stared down at the dog, eyes wide and sadistic smile slowly curling the edges of his lips. Things did not bode well for the dog.

The animal seemed to sense the deathly aura directed its way as the scratching paused for a moment and it hopped into Canada's lap just as England came barreling back into the sitting room. His face was red with rage as he growled and lunged for the dog.

It went from Canada's lap to France's as the animal paused once more to itch behind its floppy ears. England made another dive to capture the animal, only to have it hop to Canada and repeat the itching process once more. Things continued as such, France and Canada being too shocked to really do much but attempt to buck the dog off, until the disgusting looking mutt hopped back into Russia's lap, intent on running back down the hall.

The dog was caught by the muzzle strap, effectively holding it in place as Russia's face darkened and he grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck. The animal was pulled into the air as Russia stood even as it continued to scratch away with its hind legs. The mutt found itself outside the flat door, boot mark firmly planted within its backside even as the dog continued to scratch and scratch and scratch.

The absolutely deathly vibes radiating off Russia did not dissipate. They grew ten fold as the nation began to feel a sort of squirming sensation all across his flesh. For a moment, he figured it was his own mind playing tricks after being assaulted by such a dirty looking dog. The squirming escalated to tiny jolts of pain and, from there; he had no doubt as to just what it was.

As he turned, Russia saw the other three already unable to control the urge as they began to scratch restlessly at their skin. It took all his long earned resolve not to join them, even as he shifted uncomfortably.

"I'm going to skin that lad!" England howled, fingers busying themselves itching the irritation which the new occupants of his home were causing. "Fucking fleas!"

* * *

**A/N: Sorry this is kinda late! I've been busy with my new story Songs We've Never Heard, which is my dark, _very dark_, brainchild which I'm secretly super proud of. And I've actually had this chapter done for quite a long time. Once again, I just lack a reliable editor~. Nothing new with that. My friend edited this chapter and editing isn't something she's passionate about, so sorry if there are any lingering errors! I'll get Land of the Free updated as soon as possible, I'm just being lazy with that one and hit a writing wall with it. But, yea. You don't care. Hurhur. Read, review, send some fleas to that kid who bullied you in the third grade.**


	8. Chapter 7

Despite the rather crude and direct note America had put into his so very gracious present, he found that perhaps he hadn't made his point clearly enough. While turning his phones off would be out of the question, given his responsibilities to his country and boss, America had been screening his calls. From time to time, the screen would light up with another nation's name and promptly be ignored. If the calls persisted, he turned it on silent to avoid a constant din of the national anthem. The first few times he had hummed along, content as he spooned mouthfuls of Ben and Jerry into gob while watching Mission Impossible reruns on AMV. After the seventeenth time, he found even his own ditty got annoying.

Such was a day where his cell phone was turned to silent and sitting on the side table beside the couch. America lounged in a comfortable shirt and sweat pants, familiar carton of ice cream in his lap and spoon hanging half out his mouth as he glanced at the screen. 'Eyebrows' flashed across the screen. America turned his eyes from the phone to the TV, absently flipping the channels as his other hand went to work on the dairy treat in his lap.

"Cars and freedom, two things America did right."

"Fuck yea!" America cheered, smiling despite himself at the rather silly commercial.

Flipping the channel again, his eyes met perhaps one of the programs he had been religiously avoiding: _A Baby Story_. Like some horrible car crash where a mother is lying dead and several small school children from a bus are crying out for help, America couldn't look away. Thankfully, he had been spared the always painful to watch, male or female, birthing section. The joyous new couple held in their arms the new born, the flailing child looking around at the new world with half lidded, curious eyes. The mother looked so serene as she jostled the new born on her leg, and the husband so proud as he held a finger out which his daughter grasped firmly. They were professing how gratifying all the hard times had been if they were gifted with something as precious as their own child.

Absent fingers played across his belly as the eternal sinking feeling deepened in the pit on his stomach. Unconsciously, America's hand snuck beneath the hem of his shirt and ran along the steadily healing wound on his stomach. There was little more than a thin, raised line of still healing flesh. For a moment, he looked down and was met with the, at any other time, pleasant sight of a rather flat stomach rippling beneath the fabric of his shirt. The sight made him scowl and he tore his gaze away. He violently changed the channel.

Damn babies, damn parents, damn the world had become his new life motto. To say he was still hurt and bitter over the whole ordeal would have been an understatement. The cross he had been given was a constant and ever painful reminder of events passed and the notion that he had some how failed the twins once in his belly. Since a rather agonizing day, where he had been subjected to watching a young, pretty single mother playing with her new son, America had angrily shoved the offending cross into a drawer in his bedroom, refusing to take it out or even open the offending drawer. Needless to say, that left him with a predicament seeing as to how it was his _top_ drawer, which the cross had been placed. Meaning, America had been making frequent trips to the laundry room on the bottom floor of the apartment complex to keep up a continuous flow of clean underwear.

The dog bit had been fulfilling though, that much America would admit to. Soon after the expected arrival of his gift, England had left a nasty voice mail, one containing a brief moment of utter Russian rage before England had apparently, and miraculously, stolen the phone back. Entertaining, yes. Satisfying, quite so. Enough to sate his anger towards the group, hell-fucking-no. America still had more up his sleeve.

He found nothing pleasing on TV and threw the remote aside after shutting the device off. After that short but entirely unpleasant run in with a baby show, the ice cream soon became another victim of America's misplaced rage as he stabbed the tub with the spoon and roughly shoved it onto the table. Crossing his arms and propping his feet onto the coffee table, America silently seethed and tried to figure out his next plan of attack. He wanted to make the others feel just as badly as he did, maybe worse. After all, hit America, be prepared to get socked twice as hard. Metaphorically, of course. Sort of. America was still trying to suppress the urge to knock some sense into the quartet for their unwanted mother henning.

That was when the idea hit him. It would be perfect. A sound of glee worked from his throat as America grabbed at an abandoned piece of paper and pen from the floor. Anyone who commented on the messy nature of his apartment obviously didn't understand the perks of having everything within arms reach on the floor.

Scribbling down reminders and the steps for the plan to succeed, one hand reached out to his phone. Without looking at the screen, he ended the incoming call and went to his contacts. If he was going to get away with this, he would certainly need some help from an uninvolved third party. Pressing the send button, he patiently waited for his call to be picked up. One ring, two-

"Hey, yea, I need your help," America answered instantly, indulgent smirk crawling across his lips like a lazy lizard in the Arizona desert.

The flea infestation had been worse than he could have ever imagined. With the deranged mutt had come a flood of the little critters, among other things England didn't even want to begin to remember. He sat on the curb outside his flat, head in hands, as he stared at the sidewalk with phone sitting beside him. There was a part of him, one he insisted was quite pathetic, that clung to the hope that America would call. After sending the dog to a pound but failing to rid himself of the flea army claiming his flat as conquered ground, England had no choice but to bomb his flat, leaving him with no place to lounge while the smoke and chemicals killed the demons roaming his nice furniture, carpet, curtains, blankets, hell, the entire flat.

Attempting to rub away a coming headache, England glanced to his phone as it sounded that he was getting a call. Snatching up the cell and glaring at the screen, he debated on actually answering. After all, it was just France. Grudgingly, he flipped it open and answered.

"What do you want, Frog?"

A forced laugh echoed on the other line, followed by a falsely cheerful France, "Oh, is that any way to greet an old friend? I thought you had better manners than that."

"Sod off," England growled about, about ready to snap his phone shut and be done with the whole thing. France didn't call for friendly conversation, England knew. It had to have been something important so, despite his wishes to end the call and go back to nursing his headache, England attempted to shoot right to the point. "Why are you calling?"

"The fleas!"

England rubbed at his temples, almost entirely unwilling to be dealing with France but he managed to growl out some sort of signal for the man to continue on. Continue on France did, speaking quickly and shifting between his native tongue and English fluidly. It was a tirade by all means and only adding to England's growing irritation and headache. Really, he did not need to be dealing with this. There were more important things to worry about, like where in the _hell_ he was going to stay still the infestation in his flat was thoroughly cleansed.

For a moment, he considered going out to a pub. Belatedly, after reasoning that it was a perfectly fine way to spend his time, England realized he would have no America to call when he neared black out drunk. There was no way he would trust his inebriated person to France, or anyone else in Europe for that matter, nor, and he was sure, would anyone else consent to taking care of him. Especially considering his reputation for being a weepy drunk, an embarrassing fact England hated to admit even to himself.

"Sod off, France," England bit out, ending the call.

Apparently, France had nothing of importance to say. So be it, it just gave England an excuse to get off the phone. Huffing, the nation leaned back against the sidewalk, arms bracing himself, as he tried to work out something to do. While he hoped America would phone him, he wasn't fool enough to believe that America actually would. There was someone else he could go over the current situation with but the man's name escaped him. Russia was completely out of the question. Despite the man's newfound sanity, though it wavered from time to time, England still found himself disliking Russia.

So, that left England with little choices. He could go get a bite to eat and walk around the city but the charm of London had worn off long ago. When one lived for centuries and spent much of that all too long existence in said city, there was little left to the imagination. Whatever work he could have been completely was locked away in his flat. Irritated, England allowed himself to weigh the pros and cons of just going back into his home. After all, surely chemicals meant to kill fleas couldn't kill him. Some nasty side effects would set in most likely, but certainly not death.

England continued weighing the option before his phone vibrated in his hand, signaling a text message rather than a call. Bringing the plastic device up, he fumbled with the contraption before hitting the right sequence of keys and opening the message. It was simple enough. France had apparently forgotten in his long-winded speech to ask him how to get rid of the fleas, for apparently, as the text informed him, France's home had also become a victim to the little demons.

His inbox soon flooded with similar messages. One included a poorly written message from Russia requesting the same information about ridding himself of fleas and another from a Canada asking if England had to bomb his flat as the nation had apparently had to do as well. Quickly and efficiently, although crankily, England replied to all three before shutting off his phone entirely. America be damned, the boy had caused the whole mess and if he called it would serve him right to be ignored.

"Seriously, Estonia, man, just relax," America admonished the nation sitting before him.

Tapping away at his laptop, Estonia only glanced up for the briefest of moments, features set in an annoyed and anxious grimace. There came no reply and America sighed dramatically, attempting to act normal. He had hoped to avoid seeing the other nation and instead chatting over the phone. As it were, it seemed Estonia had been in New York for some meeting or another. Disgruntled, Estonia had arrived on America's doorstep once the nation firmly suggested he stop by.

"How am I supposed to relax? If Russia finds out-"

America cut him off, laughing all too loudly as he quickly waved a dismissive hand, "So completely blame me if he finds out you helped. Tell him I strung you up by your balls until you agreed."

A look of disgust skittered across Estonia's face as the man went back to ignoring America entirely. It was irritating, being ignored, but something America willed himself to put up with. Estonia was helping him after all. Though, he chalked the compliance up to the threat hanging overhead. Estonia either helped or America would make the man's life a living hell. While the words had not been voiced, they had been conveyed in a well placed and meaningful narrowing of the eyes on America's part.

More taping sounded through America's apartment as Estonia finished up the request, cheeks dusted a light pink, as he slowly closed his laptop. The nation didn't dare look up at America. Instead, he mumbled out an excuse that he had to leave, work to do, it was wonderful to see him again. All too gladly, America showed Estonia the door and roughly shoved the nation out, unwilling to spend any more unnecessary time around others. He didn't quite trust his tempter to stay in check knowing everyone had agreed with the abortion trigger-happy gang, as America had begun referring to them as during one of his many introspective moments.

Flopping back onto the couch, America let out a satisfied sigh as he propped his feet onto the coffee table and grabbed up the remote. Flipping the TV on, he was greeted by the sight of a little couple tromping around the city, holding hands and looking utterly pleased with the lives. America did not return the shining smile the woman wore. His contented grin slipped into a scowl as he viciously attacked the remote and flipped the channel. Ah, self absorbed young adults frolicking through Miami and making general asses out of themselves on national television. This would at least keep him occupied till the next round of angry phone calls, scathing text messages, and thoroughly displeased voicemails.

Russia had been meandering around his overly large home, tidying up things here and there before he had to make dinner. After everyone had left his house, depriving the building of the general (if not uneasy) life which had once filled the now vacant halls, Russia's life had become something akin to homely. He would wake in the morning, make himself breakfast, and then go to his study to complete the day's work or do some reading in his spare time. After wrestling with a few nasty bits of paperwork, he would wander into the sitting room and flip on the television to take in the day's latest news. Once he had his daily fill of the latest updates, he shut the television off and went to fix himself dinner. After eating, he would shower, climb into bed, read for a few hours, then fall to sleep.

The days played on constant repeat, broken up in a timely manner by meetings with various officials and nations, world summits, and the general going-ons of daily life to keep things from being terribly boring. A light smile playing across his lips, Russia swiped his finger against the banister as he descended the stairs, leveling an unamused stare at his dust-covered finger. Mentally, he made a note to dust soon or, at least, coax Lithuania into returning and doing a little housework in exchange for a meal. Perhaps he could forgo the meal and just insist that the man clean for him; it had always worked in the past.

His dear Lithuania, how he missed the boy. It had been particularly lonely without him around and especially stressful having to handle all the official business _and_ housework. Alas, all good things had to end, though Russia couldn't keep himself from smiling.

He was about to go on with the day's usual progression when a curious knock sounded through the still, chilled air. Pausing at the base of the stairs, Russia glanced curiously to the entryway, raising a bow as he moved fluidly to the door. As far as he knew, he was not expecting company nor any packages. He allowed a glimmer of hope to arise as he allowed himself to hope it was one of his former housemates coming for a spontaneous visit.

Opening the door, Russia chose to ignore the vibrating in his pants signaling a phone call. After all, he could have Latvia or Lithuania, even Estonia maybe, standing on his stoop in the cold and wanting to come inside of their own free will. Who was he to let such a pleasant surprise go to waste? Upon opening the door, he was greeted with a blast of winter wind and disappointment.

None of the Baltics stood on his doorstep, not even his sisters. Instead, there was a very disgruntled looking deliveryman, seeming impatient as he tapped his foot. The man grumbled as he thrust a pen and clipboard into Russia's arms, uncaring as to the height and size difference as he demanded that Russia sign. Looking up from the form with pen in hand, Russia gave the nameless man a once over with his signature look of childish innocence and menacing wrath. The man was not phased and pointed to the form anxiously.

Curiosity got the better of Russia as he signed the sheet and handed it back. The deliveryman waved a hand to a waiting truck just beside the house. Eyes wide, Russia watched in mute horror as the truck pulled up close to the door and three men filed out, one lifting the back of the truck while the other two set right away to pulling out box after box. All the packages were brought into the house, men shuffling around Russia and careful to avoid touching him. Too stunned to do much, Russia turned to the irritable deliveryman still standing beside the door as he watched the others bring in box after box after box.

Upon trying to question the man upon the meaning of all the boxes not littering his living room, dining room, and entryway, Russia received no concrete answers. Instead, the two engaged in a rather heated argument as Russia stepped from his threshold and stood threateningly over the man. While they argued fruitlessly, Russia's cell phone continued vibrating and the other men finished unloading they pay haul. Upon finishing, they quickly fled and the rather crude shouting match abruptly ended.

Russia was left with nothing but a red nose, incoming call, and house filled with so many unmarked boxes he could barely wade into the living room. Still furious, he pulled the phone from his pocket and flipped it open just as he tore away the top of the nearest box. Staring down at the contents, Russia let the phone drop from his hand as he mutely dug into the box and pulled out a piece of its contents. His mouth hung open and eyes went wide, making a very un-Russia like expression.

Vaguely, he could hear his boss calling for him to explain himself, that all the major cities were receiving huge shipments of items similar to what Russia was holding. He could not answer, though, having dropped the phone, as he stared at the comically large dildo he held in his hands. The thing was positively massive, thicker than his arm and so long it wriggled with every small movement he made. Horrified, if not at the very _size_ of the offending object, Russia realized each box was filled with the same thing. And boxes coated the floors of his room.

Oh, Mother Russia.

England had decided to stay on the sidewalk, willing to wait it out till he could go back inside his flat. The wait was boring to say the least, but at least gave him time to think. Apparently whatever higher power there was seemed intent on disallowing him any alone time with his thoughts. Caught up in his own musings, England jumped in a very manly fashion as his shoulder was tapped. Glancing up, irritating obvious, his look softened when he spotted a rather sheepish looking mail woman holding out a clipboard.

"What in the hell is this?" he questioned, standing and taking the offered board.

The woman shrugged, saying nothing. England returned the carelessness as he signed his name and handed the clipboard back. He figured he had been sent another hefty box of paperwork to fill out. Expecting a small box to be handed his way, he watched the woman wandered back to her truck parked by the curb and several man filled out from the truck, each going to the back as they unloaded an absurd amount of boxes. It couldn't possibly all be work, could it? Here, England had been thinking he had kept up quite well with all his formal obligations. Yet, box after box was stacked around the door of his flat, the neighbors popping their head out the door to see what all the commotion was about.

Mutely, and too surprised to really do much else, England approached one of the boxes just as the flood of the delivery began to wane and the last of it all was stacked. Grabbing the edge of one of the boxes, he tugged hard, too hard. The tape snapped and box tumbled over, giant phallic objects falling out across the sidewalk. Some of the neighbors rushed their children inside, casting dark looks England's way as he just _stared_.

Running on autopilot and his face a very unflattering scarlet, he pulled his phone out as God Save the Queen blared in the suddenly quiet street air. Raising it to his ear, England breathed out a quick hello. He shifted swiftly from dazed to livid as he heard France's voice come over the speakers.

"England! _Cheri_! Did you get your present?"

France sounded far too pleased.

"Though, they are a bit too large. . . How will they ever be put to use?"

Now France sounded far too displeased.

Canada had been enjoying a hot chocolate doused with maple syrup and recordings of the best hockey moments of all time. After reveling into the entirely too stressful situation of late, he had sought some peaceful time to himself. For once, he had been grateful for his ability to meld with the background and slip into oblivion. Serene times like these were born because of his gift.

What Canada had been doing and what he was currently occupying himself with were two different things though. A nice evening to himself had soon turned sour when he answered the door and wordlessly signed his soul to devil as boxes were shoved past him and into his home. Soon, the TV had been blocked out and all sitting room completely taken up. All protests had fallen on deaf ears.

He had gone to investigate the off delivery now filling his living room, a feeling of dread settling in his stomach as he opened one of the boxes. Upon seeing the contents, he face quickly heated up to such an extent, Canada awoke an hour later on the hallway floor with an aid pounding at his door and demanding an answer to, as the man outside the door put it, "enormous fuck toys" being delivered to each of the Providences.

* * *

**A/N: Terribly sorry for how long this took. I am honestly sorry! I've just, obviously, overloaded myself with things to do. My profile clears tells all. Look at all those ideas and works and blahblahblah. That's all my problem, but please excuse me and excuse this chapter is there are any lingering errors. Neither I nor my friend who edited this are native English speakers. Anyway, think that's all I have to say. Read, review, be a good lad else England might get out the cord.**


End file.
